


to go back different

by soc_puppet



Series: Magical Museum AU [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Minor Character Death, Multi, Museums, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-21 05:58:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 42,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2457386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soc_puppet/pseuds/soc_puppet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>R was just happy to find a job, even if it meant upending his sleep schedule in order to work the night shift at the Musain Museum of Natural History and Art. What he didn't count on was the museum coming to life with the setting of the sun.</p>
<p>Now R has a trio of marble revolutionaries that steal Floréal's stamps in order to save the world, docent drama that just keeps spilling over into his life, and a museum full of living art he has to keep from destroying his last chance at gainful employment.</p>
<p>It's harder than it sounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which There is Some Exposition

**Author's Note:**

> First off, this fic would not have happened without the lovely encouragement from Sovin, Cass, and Samy. Further more it wouldn't have gotten very far without my wonderful betas, [Suzi](http://sashaatthebarricade.tumblr.com/) (the lovely [satb31](http://archiveofourown.org/users/satb31/) on AO3) and [Anna](http://opabine.tumblr.com/) (also [Opabine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/opabine) on AO3) who are magic word weavers and managed to make sense of my muddled sentences and ideas while leaving such lovely comments! 
> 
> Second, I must thank the lovely [Nath](http://lapieuvrebleue.tumblr.com/) ([Phileas](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Phileas) on AO3) for [ her gorgeous art](http://lapieuvrebleue.tumblr.com/post/101327214262/so-this-is-my-art-for-the-les-miserables-big-bang), [ this fantastic mixtape](http://8tracks.com/lapieuvrebleue/go-back-different), and her endless enthusiasm.
> 
> Finally, this fic is a love letter to the museums I have visited and loved and to the Les Mis fandom. Without the wonderful experiences I've had in both, this wouldn't have gotten to where it is today.
> 
> Title comes from _The Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler_

Our home is a land populated by fairy tales and myths, with small magics sparking at the corners of our eyes where we do not see. We leave out milk in saucers at our doorsteps every night and we throw spilled salt over our left shoulders; acorns create protection and your future partner can be predicted in the toss of an apple peel. In this place, anything is possible, from men making wings to fly high in the sky, to talking heads growing from calabashes, to a loaf of bread setting off a chain of consequences so severe it takes over a thousand pages and a musical to complete the story. But you can only see this subtle magic if you _pay attention_. And, the truth is, most humans lack this certain mindset. And so they move around their mundane, extraordinary lives, and do not see. And this is where the story begins. 

It starts quite simply, as most of these stories do, with magic. A heartbroken woman, bereft of her laughter, wailed to the skies, and in her despair a spell was forged. That night, the portrait of her dead love came to life and they were able to converse again as they had when he had been living. She was able to move between the world of the living and the world of the painted; they spent many a night together as once more her laughter echoed around the halls of her empty house. 

Her happiness had one condition—when the sun rose, her love would turn back into a simple portrait. This continued on for many years as the woman’s laugh lines grew deeper and age set upon her like winter’s first snow. With no children of her own, and fearing what would happen to her painted love, she drew up a will bequeathing all her worldly items to the museum where she and her love used to wander when he was alive. 

But no museum simply acts as a repository for the contents of someone’s life, and so it fell to the registrar, Monsieur Myriel, to wade through her possessions and determine what the museum could use and what was useless. Gone were the odds and ends that she had accumulated through her travels; the molding taxidermy was thrown out, her scrapbooks were given to the local archive, and soon the only things remaining in the museum collections were a few portraits, old photographs, a tapestry, and an old bust. They were assigned catalog numbers and were accessioned into the collection. 

And that is how the Musain Museum of Natural History and Art gained a few new artifacts—and how all the trouble (and the magic) first began. 


	2. In Which the Musain is Introduced

It was well known in the Musain Museum of Natural History and Art, called the Musain or the “minnah” by its employees and visitors, that objects and artifacts would move during the course of the night. Leave a pen on the main desk and you might find it in the medicine shop in the Streets of Yesteryear, poised in a mannequin’s hand or down on one of the lined tables in the bowels of the museum where the climate-controlled collections resided (much to the quiet and lingering disappointment of the collections manager). Paintings, hanging straight the night before, would hang crooked and statues seemed to have inched their way out of their normal positions. It wasn’t unusual for this to happen in old buildings, especially ones filled with old objects, but to some it was still unnerving. 

This creation of chaos much disturbed the head of security, Javert. A proud man, he took immense satisfaction in creating a safe environment for these old, rare, and precious artifacts to be exhibited to the rabble that called itself the public. After the incident when the current collections manager managed to catch the night guard not only stealing, but befouling artifacts, Javert had taken a stronger approach to separating the wheat from the chaff. 

Enter the hero of this story. A young man teetering on the cusp of twenty five, shifting uncomfortably under the intense scrutiny of Javert’s gaze; black hair springs up, a riot of curls better served on a Caravaggio than a human being, as his blue eyes wander around the room. This is his final attempt—his friends and family have begged and pleaded with him to get a job. An artist by trade, he much prefers the sweet ambrosia brought on by the wine bottle following the crisp scent of paint as the bristles scritch across the canvas, but now he stands here, awaiting his judgment. The bleakness of life, having gone to school and yet still without a job tugs on his soul, ready to pull him into the dark. 

But not today. Javert throws the badge at him and somehow he manages to catch it. “You report at six pm when the museum closes. Sylvie will meet you at the main reception area. Do not be late.” 

It’s a moment of shocked joy when his hands close on the badge. There is a job, he has a job, HE HAS A JOB. There’s a ringing in his ears which could be the sound of the heavenly chorus, could be a sign of a concussion. There will be no disgusted looks from friends and family, they will stop bothering him, and he can spend his nights alone, without the pressing worries that occur when people are around. A grin tugs at the ends of his mouth. 

“Yes, sir!” 

*** 

He arrives a little before six, dodges the children who race out the door and ducks around their following parents. The lobby is tiled and there’s a circular desk in front of a large wall that turns into a giant mural as it reaches up to the ceiling. The mural is host to many images, from animals long dead, to random object—is that a whale skull?!—and reaches down to the floor, curling around an unobtrusive door. Two halls run down the side of the staircase and rooms branch off them. 

A woman looks up from the desk as he approaches. She is a pale, scrawny thing, brown hair sticking haphazardly from a bun, with eyes of an indiscernible color. Her smile stretches across her face like a sunbeam. 

“You must be the new security guard!” she says as she stacks and shuffles the papers. “We’re so lucky that we can afford one now. Usually we just lock up and hope that the security cameras do their job. I’m Sylvie,” she holds out her hand as she exits the desk. “And I’m afraid Officer Javert didn’t tell me your name…” she trails off hopefully. 

“Grantaire, but call me R.” 

“A pun!” she beams. “How excellent! I wish you could make puns with my name, but I haven’t been as blessed as you. We’ll have to wait for a couple of minutes as Louison chases out the lingerers, but then we can get started.” They chat a while as a harried woman trots back and forth up and down the stairs and through the hallways, making a clatter. Patrons leave, some demanding refunds, but when her back is turned Sylvie rolls her eyes, and smiles at R. 

“I know I haven’t charged anyone full price since five, so they’re full of hot air,” she explains before motioning him to follow her into the gallery on her right. 

“Is that a common practice?” 

“Not for the bigger museums, but it is here. That way no one can claim you’re cheating them if they have to leave when you’re closing. 

“So, I’ve been doing the closing for a while now…” R stands back and half listens to Sylvie’s chatter on how exactly to turn off the lights for this exhibit and the best way possible to go about the museum to do this. She moves with a comfort and ease that shows her experience and with a quick efficiency. She lingers in the gallery full of paintings, her eyes tracing over the face of a young person, wreathed in flowers, slowly sinking beneath the water surrounding them. 

“This one’s my favorite,” she confides. “Don’t worry, you’ll soon find your own, but this is the piece that really stands out to me.” 

“Tell me about it,” R urges, seeing the delight light up her eyes when he asks. 

“What I love about this piece is not just that the artist chose to invoke the imagery of Ophelia’s death scene, but used an androgynous figure. And look, you can even see poor Yorick’s skull!” she points to a part of the background 

“But there’s just something about those eyes,” she murmurs, staring at the painting. There’s something soft in her face—less than the exhaustion that drags on it, but a soft sort of pain behind her eyes. R recognizes it—he’s seen it enough in the mirror. Sylvie seems to shake it off and continue on, but all of this fades from R’s mind as he steps from the gallery into the main hallway filled with statues—and stops dead. 

Sylvie continues pattering in front of him, seemingly unmoved by the giant marble gods in front of her. She turns quizzically when she doesn’t hear his footsteps and a sliver of a smile appears on her face when she sees his expression. 

“I’m guessing that you’ve found your favorite with the Apollo?” she says, good natured laughter coloring her tone. “It’s a Lamarque, one of his best works.” 

And what a work it is. 

Three figures stand upon fragments of household objects, barrels, and what might even be a cart, the middle pushing forward, a flag clenched in his hand, while the other two flank him, faces looking up for a better tomorrow. This may be one of the most exquisite marble statues R has ever seen, especially if he’s already analyzing them. It’s got the delicacy of a Bernini, with its tender depiction of flesh and clothing, each minute wrinkle lovingly carved, but the careful attention to the clothing speaks of Chauncey Bradley Ives or Monti, and the sheer movement and emotion in the piece can only bring to mind of the ancient sculptors whose names have been lost to the ravages of time. 

“This must be what love at first sight is.” The words make it out before he even has a chance to stop them. Bemusement crinkles Sylvie’s eyes and transforms her face as she laughs and it echoes through the halls. 

“Well, if it is love at first sight, then you’ll have all night long to get introduced. That’s _Revolutionaries on the Barricades_. And if you’re still interested in them after one night, then you can talk to our collections manager, Monsieur Valjean. I’m sure our object and accession files cover the background, history, and even a couple of art student analyses, though you have to be careful with what you get.” R quirks an eyebrow as Sylvie leans towards him in a conspiring manner. 

“You have to be cautious with art students here. Sometimes they’re perfectly fine people, but there was this student, you wouldn’t have even thought it possible of him, but he started to believe that the people in the painting he was studying kept on changing places overnight. Have you even heard of such a thing?! The poor guy was never the same; after taking a semester off, he switched to studying cuneiform tablets.” It is quite a move to switch one’s focus of study, the poor student probably needed quite more than just a single semester off, R muses before there’s a finger almost jabbing too close to his face. He flinches. 

“But you should watch yourself,” Sylvie warns as she turns forward, moving ahead of him to flick yet another switch, “it’s the first time we’ve had a night guard in a while. I don’t know why Javert has hired you now, but if the old hardass is finally getting someone else, it must be big.” She turns a serious glare to him. “Watch yourself.” He’s sure she doesn’t mean to sound so, but the feeling of threat that overtakes him is almost suffocating. She moves forward and suddenly they are in the foyer again. 

“Now here’s the alarm box. Usually we set the code; since you’re here now, we probably won’t anymore, but let me get you a list of numbers just in case before I leave.” 

*** 

The Musain is three floors high, not including the collections storage in the basement, Sylvie explains to him. 

“It’s specially locked—only Javert, Valjean, the Director, and I have keys for it,” she warns him. “I don’t think you’ll have to go down there at all, but just in case, here are the numbers to call if you need to get in.” She scribbles something on the back of a business card and hands it to him. “After the last guard,” she spits out her last words as if tasting something foul, “nobody is allowed in collections without some sort of senior supervisor.” 

“The last guard?” He hopes his tone doesn’t sound too inquiring. Sylvie’s face has changed from its bland, unassuming form to a mask of fury. 

“The last guard,” she snarls, “stole artifacts from collections and was caught _defiling_ a painting by Valjean. It’s so bad that it’s still being looked at by conservators. That was over twenty years ago.” R rocks back on his heels, pushed back by the fury that seems to be pulsing outward from her slight form. 

“I’m sorry.” It comes out in a sigh as the pressure dissipates and Sylvie slumps. “I just have a special place in my heart for paintings and to hear of one hurt that bad!” Her head snaps up and she glares into the distance. “It was before my time, of course, I’ve only been working here for about six years, but I still get so agitated when I talk about it!” She rubs her arms and finally makes eye contact with R. “I’m sorry. Let’s go upstairs.” 

“We are upstairs. I was wondering how long it would take you to notice.” R smiles as he delivers the line and is greeted with a small grin in return. 

“Alright, so this entire floor is the Streets of Yesteryear and all you really need to do is walk around, make sure nothing is out of place. And then right behind this panel is the fuse board for the entire thing.” She shows him how to navigate around the two-story “manor house” at the end of the floor and the small door hidden by a painting. 

“You’ll want to start at the top and make your way down, though, ‘cause there’s the archaeology and ethnology floor up there.” Pointing at the ceiling over her hunched shoulder should look ridiculous, but somehow she manages to add a smidgeon of respectability. 

The third floor is a bit strange in that there’s a ramp that inclines up, leading to tables that have drawers filled with artifacts and a couple of glass exhibit cases, showcasing spears and swords and whatnot. Sylvie grimaces slightly. 

“Here all you need to do is check and make sure all the drawers are back in place and try to ignore the really old and incorrect labels. Make sure that paper sign is always up—it tells the visitors about what science has learned since the labels were created.” 

R glances at the sign. “There’s been a lot of science after the 1930s, hasn’t there?” He chuckles. Sylvie lets loose an exasperated sigh. 

“Yes, but we have no time, money, nor curator. Valjean is busy working on other stuff and making sure the taxidermy doesn’t have asbestos in it.” 

“That’s a thing?” 

“That is very much a thing,” she says darkly as they descend, leaving the darkened floor above them. “Don’t ask me about the arsenic.” 

*** 

Sylvie leaves after writing down contact information and codes on a sheet of paper, telling him that Louison will meet him in the morning. R promptly forgets it on the main desk along with the strange trinket she had given him “for luck.” 

He’s walking through the Streets of Yesteryear when he hears a sneeze and a crash. The light of his flashlight catches odd angles of the buildings and reflects off windows but it’s with outright shock that R sees one of the faceless mannequins falling out of the blacksmith’s shop. 

“How can this hurt if I’m not living?” hisses the mannequin as the muslin face grows features and suddenly R is looking at what appears to be a flesh and blood man. 

“What—” The word arrives through a strangled throat as R stares at what should not exist. 

“ _Bossuet_ , are you alright?” Another man bursts from the Doctor’s diorama (dressed as the doctor himself and clutching his cane) as R stares in disbelief. They turn from each other and suddenly R is the one they both focus on. 

“Oh.” 

Then there’s someone behind him and all he can glimpse is the same shocking pink as the hat in the milliner’s before something is shoved over his head and he is pushed over. In the chaos, suddenly there’s two bodies on top of him holding him down. He still can’t see because of the damnable hat over his head. 

R may be good at boxing and fencing, but right now he’s at a disadvantage. 

“What are you doing in the museum?” he says through gritted teeth. “We’re closed.” 

“Of course we know that, you dummy,” a female voice says. “Why are you here?!” 

“I’m the new…night guard, now get off!” He manages to torque his body in such a way that everyone goes flying. Scrambling to his feet, he rips the hat off his head. It’s wide brimmed and the ostrich feather is completely ruined as he flings it to the side. He shines the light in their faces. 

“Now who are you and what are you doing in the museum at night?” 

The three people in front of him exchange loaded glances and R feels irritation start to well up beneath his calm veneer. 

“I’m gonna ask again, what are you doing here?” It’s his first day on the job and already people have sneaked into the museum. Already he’s failed. He winces as he imagines the unsurprised looks and sighs that will accompany the news that he was fired on the first day. It isn’t pleasant. Not that his life usually is, but he had hoped that this job would be better. 

The lone woman of the group gives him an unimpressed look, as if she’s staring into his soul and judging him. He shifts, unease settling in his bones. Something feels wrong and it itches under his skin. 

“No,” the woman drawls. “We sneaked in here à la _From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler_ to perform an elaborate prank on the new guy. “ Her tone is simultaneously as dry as a desert and as prickly as a cactus. 

“We’ve been living here for over twenty years,” says the bald guy as he scratches the back of his head. He doesn’t look a day over twenty six and R already knows that the only food you can find here is from the kitchen. The woman rolls her eyes, one small gloved hand resting on the curve of her hip. 

“You were here with Sylvie earlier. You’ve seen us.” 

“We’re the exhibits come to life,” the doctor man grins. “Don’t worry, you’re not hallucinating or going insane, though I can check for you if you’d like.” 

R scoffs. “Makes sense you’d prank the new guy. How’d you pass this by Javert? He doesn’t seem the type of person to sit well with this.” As he speaks, he fumbles at his belt and suddenly they’re running away from him and down the stairs. 

“You’ll see it for yourself!” the doctor yells over his shoulder as they descend down the stairs. 

Heart pounding, he follows them—and descends into chaos. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am taking Sylvie's ticket selling practices from another small museum that I worked at a couple of years ago. I don't know how much this is practiced elsewhere.
> 
> And now, here's some museum vocabulary for those not up to my jargony ways.
> 
> Collections: the room where the collection of museum artifacts are stored. Often (well, HIGHLY RECOMMENDED) climate controlled, with special rooms for metal objects (humidity plays a huge factor).
> 
> Registrar: basically in charge of organizing and documenting collections. This can be anything for adding objects into collections (accessioning), creating an organizational system for find objects, or storage systems. In smaller museums, this job is often lumped with the Curator and Collections Manager position.
> 
> Curator: these are the people in charge of making sure collections adheres to the mission statement of the museum as well as the people in charge of catalogs and exhibitions. In smaller museums, this job is often lumped with the Registrar and Collection Manager position.
> 
> Collection Managers: this is the hands-on team which moves objects, relocates, works on mounts to keep the objects safe while in (and out) of collections, and does basic housekeeping to make sure there aren't any pests in collections. In smaller museums, this job is often lumped with the Registrar and Curator position.
> 
> If you feel you're getting lost, you can find a floorplan of the museum [here](http://socpuppet.tumblr.com/post/101333925707/mmnha)


	3. In Which the Museum Comes to Life

The minute his feet touch the bottom floor R is aware that something is wrong. This is heralded by the large brown bear that nearly tramples him, followed by a couple of ducks and a heron. 

“These people,” he chokes out, half amused, half terrified at what lengths they’ll go. He doesn’t think about how there was a bear in the diorama section or how many different birds he can hear calling now, voices buoyed by the acoustics in the main hall. There’s the muffled sound of many different people’s voices and some clinking and clattering that he doesn’t even want to think about. 

There’s a sinking feeling he’s trying to ignore that this is too wild to be real; that maybe he’s drunk on the job or hallucinating. What he really needs is backup—real backup. 

The desk is in an utter mess with papers and pens scattered everywhere and he—stupidly!—didn’t take the numbers Sylvie had written down for him. A low chuckle escapes from his mouth. They could be anywhere, and he’s still going to have to call in reinforcements. 

He wonders what Javert will think of the night guard who had to call the police on his first night. He makes his way to the desk; he’s going to call the cops and then Javert will come in all his terrifying glory and he can just imagine Sylvie leaning down to tell the next night guard about the crazy guard that let animals into the museum. He is going to make museum history for being the worst night guard in the history of night guards. 

Stewing in his thoughts, it takes a bit to register the giggling and the pattering of feet approaching him. Whirling around, he sees five children (who look awfully like the ones from the brass statue) chasing some sort of animal skeleton past the bathrooms and around the lobby. This is either the most elaborate prank ever—or he is going insane. 

Somehow he manages to stumble his way to the main desk and the phone is there—right within his reach. His fingers are just about to close around it when someone shoots up from where they had been crouching and crashes into him. 

His feet leave the floor as the air leaves his lungs and he tenses for the painful landing, made even more painful when the person who hit him lands on top of him. There is an almighty crack as sparks flare in his eyes and a there is a sharp twinge that flows from the back of his head until it is one massive throbbing ache and he still can’t breathe under the weight of the person on top of him. And then they move. A low groan escapes his lips and his eyes fly open in shock as bony elbows dig into him. 

And then he’s breathless again, but for a different reason. Golden hair flies haphazardly out of a ponytail as a pair of eyes the colors of the clearest, deepest lake stare right at him. He has a god perched on his chest. He gazes, mesmerized at the tiny smattering of freckles on flesh that is starting to turn red. He has a god perched on his chest. 

Wait. 

He’s staring at someone who really shouldn’t be in the museum right now. 

No living people should be in the museum except for R. Except here is a flesh and blood man, like a Greek statue come to life (and R does not think of a certain other breath-taking statue that he’s seen earlier), and he’s captivating like no one R has ever seen. Warmth radiates out from where the two touch; R blinks. 

And like that, the spell is broken and the god-man scrambles off of him just in time for R to lunge at him. It’s not even for a good reason; he moved completely on instinct. He finds his hands grasping at muscled forearms as he very nearly head butts the very attractive face in front of him. 

“You’re not supposed to be here!” R shouts as they start to grapple. “The museum is closed!” 

“Of course we’re supposed to be here!” the vision of loveliness counters—in addition to delivering a very painful elbow to the eye. “We’re the exhibits.” 

“What?” says R, clutching his eye, because what. Sylvie had said nothing about the museum coming to life. 

“Well, of course Sylvie doesn’t know,” the golden god says with ridicule. “Otherwise she wouldn’t spend so much time mooning over Jehan when she closes up.” R opens his mouth to tell the gorgeous man that Sylvie seems like a very nice person and shouldn’t be disparaged like that, but he stops when he sees the piercing blue eyes gazing at him. 

“But who are you?” 

“Hey, boss!” the woman from the Streets of Yesteryear appears, ignoring the “don’t call me that” which follows. “He claims to be the new night guard.” 

Huh, R thinks. Sylvie’s card is right there, next to his hand. What fortune. The breath-stealer and the hat-wielding harridan are now conversing with each other, paying less attention to him. He tenses, coiling power in his muscles, then leaps for the phone. 

There is a brief scrabbling, but he manages to grab the phone and then vault over the desk. But the phone has a cord and it ends up recoiling and smacking the man-god in his perfect face. It’s easy to then pivot on his foot, sprint down the hallway, and fumble for his cell phone before ducking into the nearest gallery, which is currently displaying pottery. 

The patterns on the pottery are moving in a most disconcerting manner. Even more distressing is the fact that they are moving at all. There are a couple of pots shaped like animals that are actually moving around, but the gallery isn’t filled with moving taxidermy or skeletons, which is a plus. R carefully does not look in the direction of the Greek pottery as he grasps the card in his shaking hands before dialing the first number. 

There’s a dial tone and he finds his usual silver tongue seems more like lead as he leaves a brief message. “Monsieur Valjean? My name is Grantaire and I’m the new night guard and something _weird_ is going on.” Fingers deftly pluck his phone away before he can continue, and he’s slammed into the wall. The statuesque blond stands in front of him and deftly ends the call. Blue eyes narrow into slits of sky. 

“Now,” the man practically purrs. What god decided to torture R by giving this man his body and voice combination? He feels like he’s going to die, a red flush creeping up his face. “What exactly do you think you are doing?” 

R’s pressed up against the wall, his wrists crossed and held high in the hands of the man in front of him. It’s a scene out of his wildest dreams. Maybe he is dreaming. Maybe Louison will find his slumbering body draped over the desk and he’ll get fired again. He really doesn’t want to get fired again and face the crippling disappointment of everyone that will drag him deeper into the black hole that keeps a hold on his life. His arms are immobilized but his head isn’t. 

There is a sickening crack and pain crackles through his skull like lightening as he slams his forehead into his captor’s. Stars burst before his eyes but the tight grip loosens and he’s able to slide to the side as the blond stumbles back. Before he can get away, however, two pairs of strong hands grip his arms and R finds himself captured again in another’s arms. The blond man is bent over clutching his face; blood is seeping through his fingers. 

“Tie him to a chair,” he orders the other two, not looking in R’s direction. As R is dragged away, all he can see is that lithe form straightening up and the flash of golden hair and the piercing flash of blue. He is so totally screwed. 

And now the two men who grabbed him—looking stunningly similar to the other two figures from the _Revolutionaries on the Barricades_ statue—are tying him to the rolling office chair behind the front desk with strips of what appears to be muslin tape. His torso is immobilized quite surprisingly and he can barely twist around. The last indignity comes as he’s wheeled to the center of the main hall—all the statues are off their pedestals and the figures in the stained glass window cavorting around like children at play. This is no longer a joke—it is reality—and there is no longer a smidgeon of a doubt in his mind of its authenticity. 

Panic creeps up him, curling its tendrils around his limbs and coiling in his heart. But then, amidst the cacophony of what seems to be every single exhibit in the museum gathering in the open hall, he sees his golden captor standing tall. 

Time seems to stop and, clichéd as it may seem, R feels the burn of the other’s gaze on him. He meets it, squaring his jaw and takes a deep breath. 

“So,” he drawls, trying to sound as nonchalant as he can while still being tied to a chair, “why has the museum come to life? Is there some kind of exhibit Prometheus bringing fire and life to,” he gazes at the bear which ambles by and raises an eyebrow, “taxidermy?” 

The blond looks apoplectic with rage and the brunette wearing thin spectacles puts a hand on his shoulder. 

“Calm, Enjolras.” 

“Yes, listen to Combeferre,” calls out the last member of the triumvirate that was _Revolutionaries on the Barricades_. 

*** 

It has to be past two in the morning by now. Enjolras, as the blond Adonis had been addressed, has still not stopped ranting about some issue or other in the newspaper (when R finds who’s been bringing newspapers and leaving them in the museum, he’s going to give them a stern talking to). The tension in the air seems to have lightened since the start of the evening and no longer is there a massive group of living artifacts hovering around his chair. Instead everyone seems to have spread out, except for two of the three mannequin-humans from before (who introduced themselves as Joly and Bossuet), the _Revolutionaries on the Barricades_ triad, a bust going by the name of Feuilly, and two of the paintings (a portrait of a rough-looking man with a broken nose and the same painting that captivated Sylvie in what seems like ages, but was only hours ago). 

The paintings, named Bahorel (the portrait) and Jehan (the painting), not only moved and talked but were capable of interacting both internally and externally. R remembered the absolute shock that coursed through his veins as one statue reached into the painting of a small, cozy-looking bar and grabbed a frothy, cold beer right out of the canvas itself. His shock was eclipsed as he watched the female mannequin-human walked into a painting to chat with a friend and assist with a pile of mending. He’s had enough time to come to terms with what’s happening. 

It’s all too crazy but all too real. 

But as long as he’s quite literally tied up here, he might as well sit back and enjoy the scenery, even if it is remarkably idealistic on some points. 

But then, of course, he had to speak up. 

And then one thing leads to another and another, and suddenly he has a hot blond squirming on his lap. His mind goes blank; it’s bizarre and so completely unexpected and it’s not until the rough weave of the fabric rasps against his tongue that he realizes that he’s being gagged. Struggling, he tries to throw Enjolras off, but it only makes Enjolras cling tighter. 

Amid the mayhem, the sound of the museum door opening splits through the air with a heavy creak. Everyone freezes—even R. Footsteps click against the tile and come closer and closer and closer. 

A grey-haired, respectable looking man appears, and the entire museum seems to give a sigh of relief. Enjolras slides off R’s lap at the older man’s single raised eyebrow and rearranges his clothes. Once standing, all his grace and dignity returns, as if he hadn’t been straddling a hapless night guard only seconds before. 

“Valjean,” Enjolras says, striding forward. “It is good to see you back.” 

The man sighs and rubs his eyes. “I did not know that Javert was hiring a new night guard. Otherwise I would have come as well. Young man, are you alright?” 

R is tied to an office chair. He is not even remotely alright. Hopefully his expression conveys his expression because he is also _gagged_. 

The doctor—Joly?—pops up behind the man…Valjean apparently. His face is twisted in concern. “Enjolras, did you _gag_ the night guard?” 

Enjolras huffs and crosses his arms. 

“He wouldn’t stop talking.” 

R glares because, really, there’s nothing else to do. Though his feet might be just loose enough to… 

Success! He manages to touch the balls of his feet to the floor and as he swings himself around he gives himself enough of a push that the chair goes wobbling and hurtling into Enjolras’ back. It is a small victory, R thinks as they both go down, but it is a victory nonetheless in this terrible, wonderful first night. 

And then—finally!—he is untied, taken down to Valjean’s office, and sat down, staring down a grizzled, old man who looks like he’d be more at home in a prison than a museum, as Valjean explains just a little bit of the mystery. 

“I was new here when it first started. Not everyone knows; Myriel, who Sylvie and I replaced, probably knows, and I think the director, his sister, also knows, but other than them, not many know. Everyone promised to behave themselves,” he says, giving a hairy eyeball to the people hovering around the doorframe, “so we didn’t think we required another night guard when the old one left.” 

It’s a lot to take in. 

*** 

The museum has been buzzing with low-level energy for the entire night, but when R and Valjean emerge from the basement, it’s suspiciously quiet. The taxidermy has returned to the dioramas, the statues are walking back to their pedestals, and the mannequin-people are tromping up the staircase. 

“Sunrise is coming,” Valjean comments with a tilt to his head like he can read minds. “The magic wears off with daylight.” 

The first rays of sunlight come in through the stained glass and R watches with fascinated horror as flesh melts to stone and soon he is standing in a room of statues instead of people. It’s captivating and disturbing in the same way an accident on the side of the road is, and fills him with the same kind of curious, sick awfulness—and R will never look at another statue in the same way again without wondering if they’re secretly alive and watching him back. This is going to haunt him for the rest of his museum-going experience. 

And with that in mind, it’s been an absolutely rough first night and all R wants to do is curl up in bed. His natural sleep rhythm is off, he’s just been assaulted and tied up by the most beautiful person on earth, and the old collections manager or curator or whatever he is—artifact whisperer—had to come and save him. And the museum came to life. 

Valjean catches his arm. “I’d like to talk to you further about the night shift.” 

R can’t hide the exhaustion in his eyes. “I promise I won’t tell anyone, but could I just come in a little bit earlier tonight? This is a lot to take in.” 

The old man nods and R is free, nearly running into a gangly, foal-like man who looks like he has yet to grow into his own body. 

“Umm, excuse me? The door is already open?” 

“Marius,” he hears Valjean greet him. “I came in early to look at the work you did while I was away. I have a couple of questions for you.” He hears a stammering, stuttering voice attempt a reply, but no real words as the door closes behind him. All he wants to do is go and _sleep_. 

*** 

The house is thankfully empty when he arrives. This is the bright side to completely messing up his circadian rhythm; both of his parents are at work and there are no glares or loaded, passive aggressive comments when he returns home. He grabs a plate of something from the fridge and collapses in his bed. Despite how hectic the first day was, he is quickly lulled into Morpheus’ sweet embrace. If he has any dreams of flashing blue eyes and blond hair, they are soon to be forgotten when he wakes. 


	4. In Which There are Introductions

When he wakes up it’s late afternoon and he has just enough time to clean up his dishes, grab some dinner, and leave before his parents or sister arrives home. This schedule may end up being a blessing rather than a bother. He walks to the Musain, savoring the crisp crunch and accompanying burst of flavor of the apple in his hand. The sun is still shining without the tinge of orange in the sky that heralds sunset, but there are small flashes out of the corner of his eyes. R resolves to check up with his optometrist at the next convenient time, and by the time he’s finished pulling out his phone and scheduling an appointment, he’s already at the stone steps leading up to the Musain. 

Sylvie greets him with a smile as he arrives early. “Already so eager to start your next day? It sounds, from what I’ve heard, that you missed Louison, but Valjean says he’s met you—I have no idea why he would want to come in early the day his vacation ends, but,” she shrugs, “such is the life of the collections manager. It’s like being a parent with inanimate, fragile children, I tell you. But _you_ , you are a night guard. You must have had quite the party last night.” She turns to talk to the receptionist and gather more papers, completely missing the quelling glance he sends in her direction. Valjean said that she didn’t know, but what if she does? Is she testing him? His feet stumble and take him down the stairs to Valjean’s office. 

“Sylvie knows nothing,” Valjean says. Well, that puts an end to his train of thought. And how does he know what he was thinking? Is he a mind reader in addition to an artifact-whisperer? “She just has a way of saying things. Don’t worry, everyone in the know has experienced it. And the thoughts are plain on your face. 

“So now,” and here Valjean turns to face him, fingers steepled in front of his face, “now we talk about the museum and how you will fit in. You are the night guard, and I will not fight Javert on this, but if you are to patrol the museum, there are things you must keep secret to only those who know. 

“First and foremost, no one here is a robot or a doll—they all come to life and must be treated as people. They’re all intelligent and capable of learning. Now that you’re working at night, be aware that Enjolras, despite his protestations otherwise, is the de facto leader of everyone. He’s very passionate about…well, just about everything. He writes letters to the newspapers; I provide him with stationery and stamps, though sometimes he writes more than I plan for and raids Floréal’s office. Try not to let that happen—she gets awfully upset when that happens and she is the one in charge of our paychecks. It’s good not to anger her.” 

“Wait. Floréal’s working here? Like, blonde hair, blue eyes, and an absolute genius with numbers?” 

“I take it you know her?” 

“Yeah, we used to date.” It wasn’t like he had a type; his mind strays away from thoughts of comparing her to Enjolras. She was also instrumental in his surviving though high school math. Really instrumental. And probably one of the reasons he didn’t get kicked out of the house while being a mouthy teenager. She’s a good egg, that Floréal. 

A knock on the door knocks him out of his reverie. A woman sticks her angular, copper-toned face into the room.. “I’ve done the lock up, Valjean, but I hear we have a new guard.” 

“Ah, Louison. This is Grantaire.” She gives him a searching look, narrowing her kohl-rimmed eyes and raising an eyebrow. Apparently she sees what she is looking for, and flips her shoulder length hair as she turns to walk off. 

“Well, I’m off. Try not to let the museum go to ruin while I’m away.” And then she is gone, the closing of the door and the echo of her footsteps the only sign that she was ever there. 

*** 

The second night he’s more prepared. He still goes through the rounds that Sylvie has taught him, but he leaves the lights on. After all, if he doesn’t, they will merely be turned on again by the denizens of the museum. He’s prepared now when the faceless mannequins suddenly sprout noses, cheekbones, and lips, and he holds out a hand to help the lady out of her hat store. 

“Well aren’t you the charmer,” she drawls. 

“I only wished to apologize for my atrocious behavior last night,” he replies. “And also to get your name, because it seems like you are the ringleader of the three up here, and because I also wanted to see if there was any remorse.” 

“Only over the hat,” she says as she takes his arm and they go to meet the blacksmith and the doctor, Bossuet and Joly, if his memory isn’t failing him. “But Valjean is a lifesaver and so I don’t think that it will be too noticeable. Anyways, it’s almost time to switch over from spring to summer. I don’t think that it would be too surprising to get some new old hats in the shop.” 

“A shrewd businesswoman you are,” maybe-Joly greets them, with a sweep of his cane. Maybe-Bossuet side steps it, only to walk into the hanging sign for the blacksmith. Ruefully rubbing his head (still bald, despite the wig that had been placed on him as a mannequin), he still manages to gracefully offer his arm to the lady. She takes it with a brilliant smile before turning to address R and managing to grab the other man’s arm. 

“I am Musichetta,” she says with a grand flamboyance in her voice. “Currently of the millinery shop, but previously of the Christmas Fashion Show, Fortune Teller’s Booth, and a couple of other places.” At least it looks like the Musain keeps their exhibits rotating instead of letting dust collect on their permanent exhibits. “These are my boys, Joly,” she gestured to the doctor on her right, “and Bossuet,” the blacksmith on her left. 

“Well, it is a pleasure to meet you when you are not tackling me with a fine lady’s hat on my head,” R says. “Those who know me call me Grantaire, but you are welcome to call me R.” 

“R, a fine pun,” Joly says, rolling the words. “Quite clev-R, wouldn’t you say, Bossuet?” 

“Why yes, Jollly,” the name stretches like molasses over his tongue, “it is quite interesting to have a man with the moniker of R work to guard R-tifacts in this museum, wouldn’t you say?” 

“Well, I wouldn’t want to get into an R-gument about it,” R grins. Musichetta rolls her eyes and lets go of both mens’ arms to smack them lightly. “Oh, you!” she snaps, but with laughter tempering the sharpness of her voice. 

“And you!” she points at R. “I can already see that you’ll be encouraging them. I get enough of these two bozos on my own. Don’t go encouraging them.” With a sway of her hips, she leaves the three of them grinning at each other and walks down the hallway and turns the corner that leads to the stairs. 

“See you boys downstairs.” Her smile is wicked. 

The first floor is again chaos, but now that it’s not completely unexpected, R can see that within the chaos there is order—children playing with the taxidermy animals, statues talking and interacting with each other. There’s one statue leading some sort of yoga like exercise; and then, there he is: Enjolras. 

The crowd unconsciously parts as he strides towards R. He’s got a gleam in his eye that makes R distinctly nervous. So as the blonde statue approaches him he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. 

“Are you conscious during the day?” Enjolras blinks and his mouth opens before it closes with a snap. 

“Not in the way you think. I can feel strong impressions but not much else. It’s like what I think dreaming would be like if I dreamt.” There’s a thoughtful look on Enjolras’ face and it’s just _not fair_. No one should be able to look that attractive while thinking. 

He blinks and then determination steels his eyes. “Come with me.” He grabs R’s hand and all R can do is follow. 

“The stamps are already missing from the front desk; do you know where she might have put them?” 

“Stamps?” R is confused. No, R is more than confused. Enjolras takes his confusion as an answer. 

“I knew it. She must have moved them.” He tugs R behind him like a duckling (the ugly duckling) as he heads down the stairs. 

“Whoa, whoa, wait.” He pulls his hand back and waits for Enjolras to whirl around. “What are you even doing?” R asks, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Statues don’t need stamps.” 

“I’m writing to the newspaper. They’ve got their priorities wrong; upping council salaries instead of working on the derelict school system. And then there’s a horrifying lack of coverage on the massacres in Africa,” Enjolras shrugs off R’s hand. R stares at him because seriously, _seriously_? 

“You write letters…to the newspapers. To complain about what they’re not reporting? How do you even know that? You’re a statue!” If his voice is accusing, it’s only because that was the last thing he ever expected to hear coming out of those perfect lips. 

Enjolras sends a wintery gaze in his direction. “Just because I am made of marble doesn’t mean that I am not a person.” 

“No, but how do you even hear about any news?” 

“Javert brings in his newspapers,” the one in the glasses called Combeferre says, entering the conversation with the poise and grace of a…poised and graceful person. It’s hard to come up with coherency when Enjolras’s blue eyes are lasered upon his face. 

“Plus,” adds the other one—Courfeyrac?— with a dashing wink, “we do have the internet! The passwords are remarkably easy to hack.” 

“They’re written right next to the monitor,” R deadpans. 

“Yeah, but Sylvie likes to change it up sometimes, just to keep people on their toes.” Courfeyrac goes up on his toes to illustrate and Enjolras makes a distasteful face. 

How can a wrinkled up nose look so attractive? R is in so much trouble. There’s a light, airy feeling bubbling up from his chest and through his veins. They just met; there shouldn’t be this fondness that curls around him, softening him whenever he thinks of Enjolras. They just _met_ and he got tied to a chair and gagged and…. 

That’s it. There should not be that feeling. Not at all. Nope. He loses his train of thought briefly as a hand closes around his arm and drags him further down the stairs. His awkward position allows him to see Courfeyrac and Combeferre exchanging glances as Enjolras drags him down to the basement. They know, or at least suspect, his feelings. 

The man connected to him? Not so much. 

He reiterates: he is in _so_ much trouble. 

It’s at that thought that he stops, almost falling off the step as Enjolras keeps going. He disentangles the fingers from his bicep and takes a step back (and up). From this vantage point, he’s now taller than Enjolras and the extra boost helps him meet his eyes. 

“Unlike you,” he says his words biting because this man makes him feel soft inside; because he shaves off all of R’s protective layers and is dangerous, dangerous for him, “I actually have a job.” But then his long forgotten (or neglected, you can pick) guilt pricks up, pooling around his heart like a chest wound. 

“Good luck finding your stamps,” he says, feeling his face twist into a smile and trying not to wince as he imagines how it looks, how it must look to a man surrounded by beauty all of his existence. Enjolras is still clinging to his fingers and he gently pulls away and doesn’t look at his face. If he does, it will all go to hell. 

“I have to go,” he blurts before hurrying up the steps. He can’t do this, he can’t. But he is. He makes it back into the main hallway, back into the light and hears the sound of the footsteps down the stairs fading away. It’s safe then to slump against the wall and put his face in his hands. He doesn’t particularly care who sees him because he is a giant screw up and an idiot. A soft hand rests on his shoulder. 

“Oyster?” Bossuet asks, holding a plate of, yes indeed they are oysters. R feels a tired grin edge its way up his face. They smell delicious and his mouth waters. How did they know his secret love of oysters? 

“Don’t you know? You’re not supposed to eat in a museum,” he says. 

“Does it count if this was part of the museum to begin with?” A good point—and the oysters are right there, inviting him with their oyster-y goodness. 

“Well, if that’s the case, how do I know it’s not going to turn back into paint or something when the sun arises and leave me with lead poisoning?” Joly then appears out of nowhere. 

“Don’t have him eat it! You don’t know what it will do! He could turn into a painting himself and die because he doesn’t have a canvas by morning. Or lead poisoning! Do you know what that can do to humans?” He keeps on talking but despite his good nature, R cannot listen to him list off the various ways he could die at his job. He chose this job for the fact that he wouldn’t have to deal with this, and suddenly he’s surrounded by people. How ironic. His life, really. 

But as the two on either side of him bicker over a plate of oysters, a small smile starts to grow. They may be inanimate for over half the day, but he has friends now. Or, he amends, as they start grappling over him and spilling oysters everywhere, friendly people at least. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Musichetta stroll in, stare at the scene and let out a little, ladylike snort before walking out, shaking her head, with fondness twinkling in her eyes. 

And then Enjolras walks past, a gilded statue of old, and everything slows down. R would accuse his life of being a movie, but there’s the fact that no one would ever want to watch his life as a movie. His gait is strong as he strides past and he is just perfect and glorious. R’s vaguely aware of Joly and Bossuet stopping above him but then once Enjolras is past, he sees their identical jackal grins and feels himself pale. 

Oh, to be fired from this job. 

But he needs the money, and the thought of some other person exploring the wonders that are collected in this museum is an anathema to him. He’s the night guard at the Musain and that’s how it’s going to be. 


	5. In Which Stamps are Stolen and the Museum is Thrust into Chaos

For some strange reason, everybody decides to come in early this morning. It’s not even 7:30 in the morning and already R has seen Valjean, Louison, and Sylvie as they entered the door and heard yet another person walking around. There’s the clatter of footsteps behind him and suddenly, there’s a weight on his shoulders swinging him around. 

It’s Sylvie, and her knuckles are white around his uniform. “The stamps are missing again,” she squeaks. “Be my meat-shield.” 

“What?” And then the very halls seem to shudder as a statuesque, familiar blonde comes in, rage dripping from her like fire. Somehow, throughout their fumbling, high school relationship, including all of the mistakes R had made (and he had made many), he had never seen Floréal so incensed. He turns to look incredulously at Sylvie and then turns to come face to face with Floréal’s unimpressed eyebrows. Well, that expression hasn’t changed much. “Floréal, hi.” 

“Oh so you know her,” comes the mumble from behind them. “Traitor.” 

“R? Are you the new guard then?” Floréal sounds distracted before she spots Sylvie. Her gaze narrows and it’s a familiar expression, but absolutely strange to have it not focused on him. 

“My stamps,” she says with her precise, bitten off vowels, “are missing again. Sylvie, do you—“ 

“Nope!” she replies, tightly. “I don’t know why your stamps keep on disappearing. Mine don’t because I keep them in a lockbox.” 

“It’s the principle of the thing!” 

“Take R, he’s a guard. Or even better, take it up with Javert.” 

Floréal’s face twists into a moue of disapproval. “Javert doesn’t believe me when I tell him.” 

“To be fair,” Valjean interrupts, suddenly appearing, “you have managed to misplace more than a couple of staplers and tape dispensers.” 

“And you managed to make Javert search the entire museum only to find them in your filing cabinets.” 

“I needed a place to mark my files! Sylvie does it too.” 

Sylvie steps out from behind him, “I use my phone so I can find it later if I forget about it.” 

“Nothing like the rattling roar of your annoying ring tone echoing through the metal and the walls of collections every time you misplace it,” Valjean says dryly. 

“That was one time!” 

“Javert still jumps when he hears the sound of the Beach Boys.” 

Although the conversation does sound interesting, R is beyond pleased to leave when Javert finally arrives. It’s been a long night and what felt like an even longer clean up with the whole oyster thing. Luckily for him, once morning came, the oyster juice (and smell) completely disappeared, turning into a strange kind of grainy dust that blew away in a strange wind that R would swear was not of the museum. It was weird. 

Like, even weirder than a museum coming to life as soon as the sun went down. 

*** 

Tonight, the statue children aren’t chasing the skeletons or taxidermy around. Instead, R finds himself under their curious scrutiny. Muffled giggles and the patter of small feet start following R as he goes across the museum though, through some twist of fate or just good luck, every time he glances behind there’s no one there; then the pattern starts again. It could be ghosts, who knows what exists in this world if museums can come to life and statues are made flesh, but the good natured twist of Musichetta’s eyebrow and her comment of, “Well now you’ve got quite an entourage behind you,” belay that fear. Unless… 

There’s a pounding he really doesn’t need in his chest that somewhat echoes the jolt slamming through his body as he legs down three flights of stairs to where he last saw the mannequins of floor two. By the time he finds Joly, he’s somewhat out of breath, but it’s reassuring to clap his hands down on another breathing being (even if that breathing is temporary). 

“Can you guys see ghosts? Can Musichetta see ghosts?” 

“Not…that I’m aware of?” Joly is confused, but that’s okay because maybe, just maybe, R’s traitorous heart and superstitious brain will stop sending his body into terror. 

“Oh, okay.” Relief hits him much in a way he hopes a freight train wouldn’t. He feels himself sag, drained of fear, feeling the worried tense of Joly’s shoulders still under his hands. 

“Well,” he straightens up, “Musichetta gave me quite a scare. She said I had an entourage today and I thought it was the statue kids, but I never _saw_ them and then I remembered that she had been a fortune teller and I didn’t know if anything else applied itself to your magic, or I guess the magic around you because it works on you, you can’t work on it, but I just kept _hearing_ things and I guess those kids are really quite good at hiding and—“ He nearly jumps out of his skin, despite his relief as a cold hand wraps around his. Looking down, he sees it’s one of the children. 

“Sowwy,” she lisps before grinning and showing him the gap where she’ll probably never grow back her missing tooth and R just melts. 

“Nah, it’s alright if you follow me around, kiddo,” he says ruffling her hair. “But it would be nice to see you sometimes, rather than just the echoes of your footsteps. You’re all little ghosts, aren’t you?” And, true to his descriptor, the children seem to melt out of the framework and surround him. 

“What’s this?” another child asks, tapping on his flashlight. R crouches down, feeling the burn of Joly’s amused gaze on his back and starts to explain to the kids exactly how his Maglite works. There’s a rush associated with children that he doesn’t get anywhere else and seeing the bright eyes and smiles surrounding him, R feels a burst of pride (a near forgotten emotion) blossom in his chest. 

*** 

The next night, he finds himself on the second floor, chatting with Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet. Despite attacking him on his first day, their rapid friendship and connection have helped him settle into his role as night guard. They really seem to have a better grasp of, well, everything, and a better sense of humor than the entire rest of the museum combined. But one day he finds himself questioning them about the museum. 

“So,” he says, sitting on one of the couches in the two-story house exhibit while Musichetta pretends to lay out a tea spread. “How did this happen, anyway? I mean, mannequins coming to life sounds like something out of a horror story, no offense.” Musichetta purses her lips, but her eyes gleam with delight. 

“It’s a funny story, actually,” Bossuet scratches his bald head. “I mean, we just came to life the night we were brought in, while our exhibit was being done, but I know that the museum wasn’t always like this. Most of the paintings have been here longer than us, so you’re best off asking them.” 

And so R finds himself, in the company of the mannequins three, in the painting gallery, where cheery folk wave from painted canvases and visitors slide seamlessly in and out of scenery. In the bucolic meadow scene, he manages to spy the brass statue kids playing hide and seek and it’s with joy that he finds that sliding into the bar scene is just as easy as walking into a bar with no bouncer. And, joy upon all joys, the alcohol looks and smells real. Too bad he’s on the job and can’t really indulge. But the barkeep knows everyone’s secrets and it’s to her that he makes his move. 

“Madame Houcheloup,” Joly addresses the red-cheeked woman behind the bar as the serving girl who looks half asleep (and R wonders, is she merely transferring over a badly painted face or if she’s actually bored) places before him what seems to be his usual order, “do you know if Bahorel can explain exactly what’s going on for the new night guard?” 

“Well, I don’t know about that,” she hedges, polishing a glass with a rag that has seen better (and cleaner) days. “But he won’t be as ill-natured to take it out on you if he decides that tonight is not the night for a retelling.” All three men give the Madame Houcheloup a grand thank you and a kiss on the hand as they depart—R doing it mostly because the other two did it, although, deep down inside he has a fondness for the dramatic. Stepping out of the painting is a curious sensation, like being squeezed through a small tube, yet being diffused at the same time. R stumbles a bit when he gets out, before he is led to meet Bahorel. 

Bahorel turns out to be the portrait of a man who looks more at home in a bar fight than in the suit he’s been stuffed in. At least it looks like that. From the date mentioned on the label, it might just be his casual wear. But with a twice-broken nose and a build like a tank, Bahorel looks like someone who R would get along with immensely if they had met outside of this museum setting. 

Everyone knows each other in the museum, of that much R is aware. But he’s now seeing that even within the museum there are cliques, just like the outside world. Some artifacts are less sociable than others, some due to limitation of movement, and others are slightly restricted by material like the statue of a woman coming out of a block of stone (Apparently she can remove herself fully, but the pain that accompanies it is not worth it. The other statues and Musichetta have taken to talking with her all night). But now that there’s a new person, and that person is R, so introductions are flying so quickly that his head is spinning. 

They ask Bahorel, not in direct words, but with implied meaning, as if stepping around land mines. R doesn’t understand at first but then gazing up on Bahorel’s face, he understands. The man is in pain even at mere hints of the story. 

“Not tonight,” he said in a soft voice, far softer than his usual booming tone. “I do not think I could bear it.” And with this solemn declaration, R was promptly whisked away and sent into another painting where he found himself in a group of women discussing different wives tales about apples and apple peelings. 

“Ah, the apple,” he starts out. “The fruit of passion, the fruit of knowledge, and the bringer of health and happiness. For do they not say, ‘An apple a day keeps the doctor away?’ And is it not so that the apples of Idunn will restore health and immortality upon the eater? And yet is the apple not the forbidden fruit—the fruit of sin? It gave Eve the knowledge and Adam his apple that we men still keep today,” he taps his throat for emphasis, “and did not Eris use a golden apple to start the Trojan War?” 

One of the women closer to his age, Marguerite, gives him a blank look. “That may be so,” she says, “but you’re forgetting that golden apples also grow on the Tree of Life in the Garden of the Hesperides and that in order to have a sweet new year in the Jewish tradition, you must dip apples into honey. Nowadays you bob for apples and even give one as a gift to teachers. How can you say such contradictory things about one little fruit?” He shushes her. 

“I’m just getting started, Marguerite! It was an apple that felled Snow White. Poisoned it may have been, but it was the fruit that delivered her poison. It was an apple that William Tell had to shoot off his son’s head and it was an apple that Conle ate that ferried him away to faerieland. 

“And yet, Avalon comes from _av_ which means apple. And the old wives,” he nods to the titter of a group of old women surrounding him, “say that if you peel an apple perfectly you can find your future spouse’s initials in the secret curve of the peel as you throw it over your shoulder. It was an apple that helped King Rerir’s wife give birth to Völsung, great-grandson of the mighty Odin himself! 

“So I leave it to you, ladies.” He gives an elaborate player’s bow to their claps and cheers. “What is the worth of an apple?” 

*** 

And life goes on for R as the night guard. He checks in occasionally with Javert and writes reports but, other than that, most of his time is spent hanging out with the various pieces of the collection and making sure that the few artifacts that have escaped from the locked doors of collections are able to make it back before the sun comes out. It’s sort of like being a giant babysitter for teenagers, or herding cats, or something equally impossible. It does help that the older statues and paintings help him out, giving him advice and backing him up when he gives out an order. 

Once or twice a week, Enjolras holds court (though Enjolras would not call it that), where he talks to the museum dwellers about what news has happened, what they should be worried about, and other tidbits. R starts bringing in movies and other pieces of pop culture to the delight of most, and soon he finds himself using the computer to play movies, or finding himself crashing in a cuddle pile with Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta. He finds himself chatting with paintings and learning more about the artists than he ever learned in school. 

It’s fascinating—and suddenly one day in the middle of playing ring around the rosie with the kids he realizes that he’s part of the museum family now. He knows almost everybody by name, is friends with a decent few, and can even understand the pottery when it communicates in pictograms. Enjolras even smiles at him when he passes, and in his giddy glee he realizes something: he feels at home here more than he has ever felt in a single other place. 

In addition to meeting the residents of the museum, he also finds himself meeting and becoming friends with the staff as well. Louison turns out to be a friendly sort of girl—a bit absent-minded, but a good sport about just about anything and possessing some of the sharpest instincts, tongue, and eyeliner that he’s ever seen. He comes in early one day and manages to see her anticipate a tripping child from across a room and keep the poor kid from crashing into one of the dioramas. It’s pretty impressive—even more so when he realizes that she’s wearing stiletto heels. It is she who chats with him when he arrives early—and it is she who tells him some of the juiciest gossip. 

Apparently one of the gentlemen on the board of directors has a grandson and has decided that said grandson should work at the museum. Nobody’s too pleased with the idea—he’s coming in as a research assistant, and the Musain is a small enough museum that they don’t really have the money (or the need) for that, but apparently the grandfather is taking care of that as well. His name is Marius and, in Louison’s expert opinion, he’s kind of a booby. Coming from the woman who pronounces “shard” as “sherd,” R doesn’t really know what to do with the information. 

But speak of the devil and he will appear; Sylvie introduces them the next day. Marius Gillenormand is a tangle of limbs with chocolate brown eyes best found on a calf, still trying to figure out which legs to place where without overbalancing. He’s a twitchy sort of fellow, though that may have a bit to do with how Sylvie hovers over him when he’s working with artifacts. Then again, his first day consisted of him nearly crashing into both the pottery display and the taxidermy, as well as a close encounter with one of the mannequins (according to Louison) and Sylvie’s been a bit tightly wound after that. Anyone would be nervous with Sylvie hovering around them like a doom vulture. He hears stories of how she actually circles this Marius, leaving a more-than-slightly spooked man who twitches at just about everything now; though he seems the sort to do it naturally. And so the Gillenormand boy is introduced into the staff of the museum. 

Marius is an interesting addition to the staff. He’s not sure how the board managed to convince Director Baptistine, a thin, drawn woman, to hire him, despite the power of his grandfather. Director Baptistine, who comes in early and stays in her office all day until the late afternoon, does not seem to be someone easily wooed by money. He muses on this as he munches on a doughnut the slick glaze melting on his tongue, and thanks whatever deities exist that despite her love of early mornings that she never does manage to come in before dawn—a cool balm on the unease of his soul. Her work ethic is incredible, but she’s old enough that it’s quite possible she’d drop dead of a heart attack and then where would MMNAH be? Still, it’s always comforting to hear her clicking strides down the staircase in the morning, and she never fails to bring breakfast snacks every other week on Mondays. 

*** 

One day there’s a new girl chatting with the brown-haired docent R still has to formally meet and Louison as R approaches the desk. She looks up only when he’s all but on top of them. 

“I believe you’re Grantaire?” Her voice is light, like wind chimes in the breeze. 

“Call me R—everyone else does.” 

“I’m Cosette, part time manager of education. Sylvie mentioned I should talk to you, since you’re new here. She’s been subbing for me while I was studying abroad in France, but now I’m back! I figured I should tell you because I sometimes stay late with Dad.” 

“Her father’s Valjean, so you don’t have to worry about the lock up,” the dark-haired docent, who R still has to affix a name to, butts in. 

“Well, that’s a relief,” R laughs half relieved, half nervous, although he thinks that maybe due to being Valjean’s daughter she already knows everything. Well, as she is most likely staying late tonight, she will soon find out anyways. The lights click off as Cosette heads down the stairs to join her father in collections, and R goes to his usual post to see the stained glass come to life. It is fascinating to watch as each person seems to “wake up” and meander in a sleep-dazed way before getting energetic enough to practically recreate the Olympics on the stained glass. 

And now there is Cosette, who might potentially stay late. Well, if Valjean was her father…but how was he to know? R shakes himself out of his musings and starts his round. The hustle and bustle of the museum slows to a trickle as the last guests are gently ushered out and then there is merely the occasional squeak of a wheel or the clack of heels on the floor as the rest of the staff finishes their daily work and heads out, often with a shouted farewell and the swing of doors. 

Finally, all is quiet, except from the low murmurs coming from the basement where Valjean and his daughter are working. R means to do the daily ritual of walking through the rooms to make sure everything is secure, but he finds his feet taking him down the stairs to the basement. Turning past the education and director’s offices, he finds himself hovering at the doors of collections. The lightbulb splutters above him and he hovers in the doorway, insecure. It’s the bright laughter that comes from within that makes him straighten up and rap on the door frame. 

“May I enter?” Two heads turn to him from where they are hunched over a battered looking painting on the main table. 

“Grantaire, yes, please come in,” Valjean greets him. “Have you met my daughter Cosette?” 

“Just as I came in.” She smiles at him and he realizes that she has dimples; how charming. 

“We’ll be staying late tonight and take care of those in collections, never fear.” 

Cosette’s eyes are bright. “Don’t worry about us,” she chirps, but her eyes keep straying back to the painting. 

For some reason the whole affair seems like an immensely private thing that R is intruding on. He tips his hat, half in respect, half in a gentle mockery and bids the two farewell. There’s still some time before it gets fully dark and before then he should patrol the museum, just to make sure that everything is in place before it becomes disarrayed by coming to life. 

*** 

It takes a while for the two to emerge from collections, which is surprisingly quiet. There’s no beat thumping through the building, making the rafters shake. But when they do appear, Cosette is almost instantly swarmed by everyone. It’s strange how everyone seems instinctively pulled to her the moment she exits the stairwell. People are asking her how she’s doing, what she’s done, and the chatter is almost loud enough that R would be worried about noise complaints to the police. 

And then the party in collections finally starts and R wonders why he even tries to deal with this. He notices that Feuilly is craning his head towards the crowd gathering around Cosette, looking bereft, and he walks over to keep him company. 

“Well, it looks like Cosette is back,” Feuilly says cheerfully. If it’s faked or genuine, R doesn’t know. He and Feuilly don’t really talk that much; he’s usually entrenched in conversation with all three of the _Revolutionaries on the Barricades_ gang and, while not a poet like Jehan, has added quite a few memorable phrases to the letters that Enjolras has sent. 

“So, you know Cosette pretty well then?” R is fishing for information and being shameless about it. Feuilly seems to acknowledge this with a wry smile. 

“Most of us who have been here long enough watched her grow up, from a wee babe to the young lady she is now. She’s really blossomed, and she looks so much like her mother…” 

“You know her mom?” R exclaims. 

Feuilly opens his mouth to say something more, perhaps but then Cosette appears behind, with her followers trailing behind. 

“Feuilly!” and her face lights up. “It’s been so long!” Embracing the bust, R can almost see the fond look stealing over Feuilly’s face as the blonde enveloping mass that is Cosette’s hair envelops him. All the emotion is making him slightly awkward, so R hightails it over to the other side of the gallery, where a cheery red-faced woman is serving drinks in a bar. He could really use a drink, but he’s on the job and no one will be serving when he gets off. One of the “benefits” of his job. 

Combeferre finds him there. 

“You’ve studied art, haven’t you?” he asks. 

It wasn’t one of his better ideas and he didn’t end up finishing art school, but R nods. 

“Feuilly used to be a painter. You should talk to him about techniques and the…” For the first time the usually composed man seems to be searching for words, “…like,” he concludes. Art stuff. Huh. Well maybe he _would_ have something to talk with Feuilly about. 

“Thanks,” he nods towards Combeferre and makes an internal note to talk to Feuilly after Cosette is done talking to him. Art stuff. He can do that. His schooling probably helped him to get this job, maybe it can (finally, that tiny voice that sounds like his father whispers) be useful for something. It leaves a slightly sour taste in his mouth for the rest of the night, nervousness and anxiety all balling up like a lead weight in his chest, but he soldiers on, craving the safety of his room and bed as soon as possible. Once he makes it home, he sinks into the soft material and creates a cocoon, able to ignore his demons. 


	6. In Which R Realizes the World is Not as it Seems

The dark-haired docent whose name R still doesn’t know comes in one day as he is just finishing his final sweep to make sure nobody is frozen out of place. She has a cocky swagger on and underneath, R can see that she’s come by it honestly. She moves like a panther, perfectly poised but constantly coiled to pounce. 

“Louison can’t make it today—something about thieves,” she shrugs at R’s surprised glance. “It’s not anything serious, just something she gets in a tizzy about. It happens ‘round once a month or something.” She stretches and cracks her back; the pops echo through the empty halls. When her hands come down, one stays horizontal and is outstretched in his direction. 

“I’m Éponine.” She gives him a bright grin. “I’m one of the expert kid wranglers here. I usually volunteer on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays. I’ve just had an unexpectedly busy couple of weeks lately.” 

“Nice to meet you, Éponine. I’m surprised Sylvie didn’t kidnap me or something to introduce us already—” a muttered “she _does_ do that kinda thing” comes from Éponine, “but it’s nice to finally put a name to a face and all that jazz. If you haven’t heard already, I’m Grantaire. Call me R. Everyone else does.” 

“R, nice,” her gaze pierces him, stripping away his layers of bravado. She’s got a sort of aura around her; it’s a kind of tension, like the torque in a knife fight right before the switchblade pops to stab you in the gut. Wariness bleeds from her lines. She’s got tired eyes set in a wired body, always primed for motion. “Lemme know if you need anything, but it’ll probably cost you more than you’re willing to pay.” She dusts her hands off on her jeans and strolls away. It’s a strange thing to say, but R supposes that Éponine is the type of girl who can say these things and get away with them because of the feeling that she can, and will, follow through. 

So now he’s met Éponine, the one of the museum denizens that works at the Musain and who works directly with him. Between her, Marius, Louison, Cosette, Valjean, Floréal, Sylvie, Director Baptistine, and Javert, he’s got the whole collection. 

*** 

When he has to stay later in the day to give his twice weekly report to Javert, R goes and watches the staff of the museum. Marius is amusing to watch, especially when Cosette is around. Already gangly and as awkward as a newborn fawn, his clumsiness seems to increase exponentially whenever she is in the area. He sometimes works with the docents (which makes it particularly disastrous), but it’s through watching him that he realizes that Éponine is apparently in love with Marius. 

This is deduced not from her own confession but from her near palpable pining whenever he is near and the way her dusky skin flushes whenever he talks to her. Marius is oblivious to everything but himself, as usual, though Cosette can often be found observing Éponine with a strange look in her eyes. It’s not jealousy or hatred, but something different…something stranger….and something definitely more interesting than a Thursday afternoon soap opera plot. 

Louison is coolly competent except when she forgets something, which is often but mostly in relation to her personal life rather than work. R follows her around, bemused, for an hour or so on the orders of Sylvie (who apparently also works in HR) to see what the museum is like with living people in it. The irony almost makes him laugh, but the way she interacts with the visitors and how they are interacted with is extremely different than actually talking to the exhibits. Louison’s a recent grad, but a faithful volunteer, working two jobs in addition to the museum and still living at home with her moms. She’s saving up to go to grad school because she wants to become a professor because of her love of teaching. All this is divulged through the talks she gives the museum visitors and it’s quite an interesting look at how someone can engage the audience through her teaching. The museum goers love her. 

R sees Floréal less often. She’s usually either ensconced in her office or talking to Director Baptistine. Sometimes in the early morning she will come and find Sylvie and ask about stamps (usually causing a heated surge of shame because he forgot to replenish the diminishing hoard of stamps and Enjolras is nothing if not persistent when it comes to his causes) but sometimes she will come in on breakfast snack days and cheerfully gossip with R about what’s going on with their old high school cohorts (he doesn’t care), what new objects Valjean and Sylvie are begging to be added to the collection (somewhat interesting but not until they arrive), or the latest developing romance and drama between her younger sibling and their newfound polycule. 

(“Should you be telling me all of this?” he asks one time and she shrugs and downs a glug of coffee. “You’re discrete enough that you wouldn’t spread it around,” she says biting off a mouthful of pastry. “And, to be honest, you’re the only one I would trust to talk about this, anyways.” Bits of pastry fly out of her mouth as she speaks, and she places a hand over her mouth belatedly. R tries not to let the warm ember of pride sitting in his chest show on his face, but Floréal has always been observant. “Aw, don’t be like that.” She playfully shoves his shoulder with hers. “You, for all your posturing, are a kind, gentle, and caring person. And I know I can be safe when trying to dissect my sibling’s relationship and all the weirdness with Mother and Father with you.” She gives him a half grin. “But you would say you’re just here for the pastries.” He gives her a salute with the doughnut. “I am.” “Is that coffee?” comes Sylvie’s hopeful tone from the kitchen door. “Bless you, whoever made it. Now gimme.”) 

Sylvie is a maelstrom of organization, not only acting as head secretary and HR person, but also as the main organizer of collections (“registrar” she calls it), and as a part time curator with Valjean. Because of the many hats she wears, she fusses around the museum like a bumblebee, darting from place to place, from object to object to make sure her duties get done. A little less obvious is Valjean, who mostly keeps to the basement. He keeps the collections in tip top shape, with a kind word or gentle smile for whatever soul manages to enter his domain. He is taciturn but a warm presence lurking downstairs and everyone holds him in high regard, except for Javert. 

Javert is maybe the most paranoid man in existence. He has an all-encompassing aura of strictness that makes R straighten up and treat him with all due respect…and maybe more. He is at odds with at least Sylvie and Floréal in a way that contains respect and mutual disparagement, but in a way that works. When he irritates one of them too much, the tinny tunes of the Beach Boys begin to float out of the basement. Neither woman takes anything lying down. The opposite is his relationship with Valjean, whom he seemed to hate. Valjean is the type to kill with kindness, however, so R can’t really tell what is going on there. But, despite his animosity with Valjean, the two people Javert seems to tolerate the most are Cosette and Éponine. 

And those two. There is an interesting dynamic between them. Despite their relationship as the head of the education department and one of the Musain’s best volunteers (a relationship which one would suppose would be full of good feelings and intentions) Éponine can never quite meet Cosette’s eyes and Cosette never attempts to remedy that. 

There’s a story in the twist of her lips, when she looks at her. There’s a story that surrounds the two, binding them in ways he guesses he can hardly understand. There’s a story in the glances that they give when the other isn’t looking. But it’s not a story he’s going to learn today, unfortunately. 

*** 

But maybe in the future, he will. The next time he’s alone with Cosette, he hesitantly brings it up. After all, everyone has those parts of their life that they don’t want others to poke at, and Cosette is so sweet that he’d hate to step on any of her landmines. But the chance occurs during one of their late night picnics in the lobby (far away from any exhibits) while Enjolras and the rest of his merry gang are going over the latest newspapers. She smiles and nods, and R instantly feels the tangy rush of relief. 

“Éponine and I,” she delicately picks her words, “have a history of some sorts. When Papa first adopted me, he needed to find a daycare. The daycare he ended up choosing was…not of the highest quality and eventually got shut down. But that was after I had been there for years.” She pauses for a moment to take a hearty bite of sandwich. 

“Éponine’s parents ran the place and she was the holy queen terror as a child.” The admission draws out a low whistle from R. The Éponine of then, a middle-class princess brat, doesn’t seem to fit with what he’s seen and noticed of her now. He admits as much and Cosette’s face twists, turning her fair features sour. 

“Papa wasn’t only the one who complained after he found out. After I left the daycare I heard they got into quite a lot of legal trouble, and eventually they,” she looks for a discrete word to describe what sounds like the downfall of a middle class family into poverty and the black market due to their lack of morals and/or choices. 

R decides to relieve her of this burden. “I get it.” 

Relief bathes her face and there is a small kernel of contentment in his chest that unfurls when it is he who makes that expression on her face. Which is probably a symptom of his obsession with all-too-pretty blondes with blue eyes, but he’s not going to let himself linger on that for long. Appearances to keep and all that. Plus, poor Marius might drop dead of a heart attack or something if someone else started showing interest in Cosette. The picnic ends shortly after, R heading over to investigate a crashing sound from the elevator (it turns out that Bossuet hit the emergency stop button and now is trapped with a couple dozen small artifacts and taxidermy rodents) and it takes nearly a half hour to go into the wiring as well as frantically search Google to figure out how to get them all out. When they do all tumble out, the elevator is banned for the rest of the night and the smaller artifacts and rodents are returned, by hand, to their places. 

*** 

Cosette heads home before the sun rises, with an admonishment and a shaken finger at R to sleep better that day. However, R ends up staying late at work when Louison comes in early and starts chattering to him about the strange disappearance of the cucumbers in her mothers’ garden. 

“Some brat,” she grits out, “is just taking them, I know! I’d invite you to do a stake out, since you’re security but I guess you get enough of it on the job, huh? Any advice?” 

He leaves her musing on the combination of a bullhorn, water guns, and various liquids that taste bad, such as vinegar or soapy water and heads back home. Overhead, stone shifts, creating a grating noise that echoes through the alley. He looks overhead, but only the towering steeple of the nearby church can be seen. There’s a quick flicker of something that’s a little too large to be a pigeon and a heat shimmer, but then it’s gone and R is left blinking at nothing. 

He makes his way home with no other incidents only to nearly be smacked in the face as Camille slams open the door. 

“Rémi, shit!” she yelps. “I’m sorry!” Her hair is a mess, she’s only got one earring on, and her eyes are bloodshot. 

“Well, you look great,” he drawls as she bustles past him, sprouting apologies. 

“I stayed up too late and now I’m so late!” she explains over her shoulder as she makes a break for the car. “There should be something left in the kitchen for you. Mom and Dad are off on their morning walk, so you should be able,” she manages to open the car door and fling her purse, spilling papers as she does so, into the passenger’s seat, “to eat unmolested or judged or whatever their haughty ‘how to train your kids’ books tell them to do.” She sits down in the car and there’s the slam of the car door, followed by a muffled yelping and the sound of her tumbling out again. 

“The _keys_!” 

Eventually Camille does manage to make it out the door and off to whatever job or internship she has now, leaving only the belching black smoke integral to the movement of her car in her wake. R waves her off and then meanders back into the kitchen. She said there was food, but what he finds is leftover oatmeal on the stove, some pieces of chopped peach, and a half-eaten mixture of the two slowly solidifying in a bowl. The sigh starts from deep inside and rattles its way upwards, surprising him with its force, but he gets started tidying up the kitchen. The oatmeal, both in the pot and in the bowl along with the peaches gets shoveled into his mouth. The textures are…okay, he guesses. Half of the oatmeal is jellified or something, but the peach makes it vaguely palatable in a non-nauseating way. Plain oatmeal, even if it has peaches in it, is disgusting. It looks as if there might have been some milk earlier in the morning, but the pitcher is empty, a couple of odd dribbles trailing across the counter. He wipes it up with the slightly sour smelling sponge, making a mental note to put it through the dishwasher sooner rather than later, and trundles into his room. Changing is too much of a bother; he lies down on the bed and is instantly drawn into the sweet embrace of Morpheus. 

*** 

When he had fallen asleep, he could have sworn that there were clothes piled up on his floor, but when he wakes up it is bare and…sparkling clean. He sees some more of those weird flashes from the corner of his eye and leaves a note for Camille. Maybe she of the purple polka-dotted day planner can help him schedule something if he decides to forgo sleep. The museum practically takes care of itself, anyway. 

Or at least the collections do…. 

Shaking his head, he makes his way to the bathroom, miraculously not managing to stub his toe or walk into anything. It’s a minor miracle to be celebrated with all the pomp and reverence given the gods of old. Maybe he should make a sacrifice. He’s halfway through pondering if a squirrel could be counted as an acceptable sacrifice for the new age when he realizes that he’s walked past the bathroom and has to make a detour through the living room to grab a glass from the kitchen… 

And that’s when he sees it through the sliding glass door on the patio. It’s preening its wings with a wickedly sharp beak as it lies on his mother’s lounge chair. Razor sharp claws come out as it stretches up and back like a lazy cat before taking a leap forward to soar over the railing and into the sky. 

That was…that was…well, if his mythology is right, then R has seen a freaking gryphon. His tailbone protests as he sits sharply down on the floor, but his shaking legs cannot hold him up. Of course it’s _possible_ that if a museum can come to life that other things out of a fairy tale or mythology could come true. But it was one thing to hypothesize, and quite another thing to see a massive gryphon lurking on his patio. And if that was true…what else? 

And what if the gods are real too? It’s too late (or early) for these kinds of thoughts, R thinks with the decisiveness of those who need so much more sleep to handle such revelations that shake the very foundations of their world. Unfortunately, he has to work but maybe he can beg off someone and sleep on one of the tables in collections or in a stairwell or in the Streets of Yesteryear or something. R rubs his face, feeling the rough burn of stubble that scrapes him back into reality. He has a job to do, he has a place to go. Life moves on and will take him with it. He stands and continues to the bathroom. 

He stares blankly into the mirror as he brushes his teeth, shaves, and goes about his normal “morning” (though it is evening) business. Magic is real, the creatures that populated his books and stories are real—more real than anything his young, bright eyed child self could have ever imagined—and here he is, brushing his teeth. It’s enough to make him want to scrape himself out of his skin and find somewhere (someone) else to inhabit until this feeling goes away; but at the same time, there is a buoying sense of joy. 

Magic is real. The world is real. The world is magical. There is so much more out there than he can ever see, but it is there despite what the skeptics (and parents) say. Magic is real. 

He exits the bathroom and soon the house, his feet pumping to the beat of his heart. 

Magic is real and he is alive. The world is turning out to be quite an interesting place. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the plot thickens


	7. In Which Marius Stays Late

R’s unusually quiet that night, and it seems like everyone has noticed it. The fact there’s more magic in the world than just in the microcosm of the museum makes sense, but it’s still quite disconcerting. After seemingly conferring with Musichetta, Joly and Bossuet take him aside to inquire about his mood. 

“I saw a gryphon,” R blurts out. “And despite seeing all of what this museum has to offer, it still takes my world and sets it spinning off kilter. Soon it will lose the atmosphere and oxygen and all the inhabitants will die. All because I saw a gryphon sunning itself where my mother usually sits. Do you suppose it actually was my mother and I am half gryphon? How troublesome that would be on a census, not human, half a creature that nobody believes exists. Alas, alack, I am almost that already, even if my mother continues to disappoint me and remains human.” 

“You saw a gryphon?” Joly narrows down onto the important bits because he’s just that wonderful as R attempts to glue his flapping lips shut. He fails, of course, because failure is in his blood and his mind, dripping black goo like some sort of malaise and staining everything he touches. 

“Do you know how hard it is to accept that it’s everywhere and not just here? I had some righteous denial going on here, and now it’s gone. Disappeared into the ether, like the dream of a lotus eater; drifting lost to ensnare the unwary in the dark recesses of my mind. If I don’t keep my wits about me, it’ll come and capture me again, so don’t let me forget. You two will be my Mneme, my muse of memory, please and thank you ever so much.” 

“You saw a _gryphon_?” It’s Bossuet who speaks now. 

“Yes, I saw a gryphon, but that’s not important, the impending sense that my life is now completely out of order because magic exists outside the museum as well is important. Aren’t you paying attention?” 

“You saw a gryphon?” And, oh hypothetical gods above, it’s Enjolras. R feels loose within his skin, shaking from the inside out, rattling through bones, muscles, and flesh. The very pillars of his world have cracked and now they are focusing on the blunt instrument, rather than the damage. A warm hand lands on his shoulder and, hysterically almost, he wonders why cold marble can produce such a heat-filled brand upon his body. 

“It didn’t attack you?” Enjolras could almost sound concerned. 

“It was a gryphon, not a spiteful sphinx, _and_ I was behind glass.” He startles back as Joly attempts to grab his face and examine him. “Hey! Watch it!” 

“When they know you can see them, they go for your eyes,” Joly mutters nonsensically as R finally lets himself be looked at. 

“Don’t let them take your eyes, just ignore them,” Enjolras says, nay, commands. He could order R to walk off a bridge and he would do so, but the content makes the part of him that is cat and holds his curiosity perk up. 

“Just ignore the magic around me?” R drawls. “Who would do that?” 

“Someone who wants to keep their eyeballs in their head,” Musichetta butts in. “Magical creatures are notoriously private about their lives. If they know you can see them, you’re in for a world of misfortune. But I don’t think that will be a problem.” She’s doing the creepy thing again where she seems to stare through him. He waves a hand in front of her and is gratified to see her blink rapidly. 

“That is very creepy. Stop it.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she smirks. But she totally does, he knows it. 

*** 

There’s so much more to see, now that the veil has been lifted, and it’s freaking irritating that he _can’t do anything_. Valjean confirmed about the eye stealing thing and had some very graphic pictures of what would happen if R did make an ass out of himself and look at those who didn’t wish to be looked at. It was very crane wife-ish, but with the added element of Bluebeard or something. To be exact, it was terrifying and exactly just what his body needed to be snapped out of the disorder that that blasted gryphon had caused. Two wrongs could not make a right but two opposing forces could help keep R standing. After all, three lefts did make a right—but that’s his brain rambling out of control once again. 

So he ignores the fairy lights that sometimes dance around people, he ignores the shifting of stone near the cathedrals, and he tries not to look too carefully at shimmers or things out of the corners of his eyes. A veil has been lifted—but an invisible one for his well-being seems to have replaced it. It’s not as fun as his younger self would have expected, seeing magic in the corners of the world, but it’s not as if he wasn’t warned. There’s always an element of blood and pain to these types of magical stories, and even if they’ve been sanitized for the complacent, modern audience, there’s still blood and bone deep down. It’s hiding, but there; ready to snatch at the unwary. And R has been snatched. He has been taken down the rabbit hole and into the Summer Lands. Into a place where museums walk at night, gryphons sun themselves on his parents’ patio, and brownies clean his room. It’s insane and magical and wonderful and terrifying all at the same time. And to top it all off, the best friends he’s making are inanimate during the day. That’s enough to knock anyone off kilter. 

And yet, as the days pass, it gets easier. Not immediately so, but it does get a bit better, and he doesn’t feel the urge to stare at the strange-looking ears of a gorgeous man passing him or shade his eyes from the shimmer of scales flapping above him. He’s tense like a wire, ready to shoot sparks at any minute, but he’s also grounded in a way that he’s never been before. He supposes it’s the museum—and maybe the people in it, though he won’t even admit it to himself in the privacy of his head. After all, after magic comes mind readers, right? R’s read enough comics and short stories to know that _that’s_ a bad idea. 

*** 

His nightly habit is simple. Usually, everyone’s mostly gone before R arrives and it’s easy to keep to the basic routine of checking the floors before twilight, making sure nobody hurts the museum during the night, and checking to make sure everyone got back to their places by dawn. It’s only after Joly and Bossuet tumble down from upstairs, slapping him on the shoulder, that he hears a crash and a panicked yelp from below. A bolt of panic shoots through him, because that’s not an object’s yelp, and he remembers. 

Marius is still here. Marius stayed in collections working late because that boy’s work ethic is only matched by his extreme awkwardness. He sprints towards the stairs, every footstep pounding in counterpoint to his rapidly speeding heart. 

Courfeyrac whizzes by him, his kind heart probably leading him to the sound of the panicked cries, heading down the stairs at a dead run. 

Once R manages to pound his way downstairs, what greets him is a terrified Marius clinging to Courfeyrac as a couple of dolls and some Balinese shadow puppets walk around the collections room. 

“They, they’re moving, living!” 

“Shhh,” Courfeyrac is using a soothing tone. “Please calm down.” 

“They’re _living_.” 

“Marius! Calm _down_.” Despite R being the one to snap this, Marius looks up at Courfeyrac, panic dancing in his eyes. His mouth drops open and the sound that comes out is a half wail and half something else as he slumps in Courfeyrac’s arms. 

“Okay, Marius, was it? Calm down.” Courfeyrac’s voice is soft and coaxing, like Marius is some kind of wild animal he’s never seen before. The dolls are peeking out from behind the collections door. Well, here is something R can do. 

“You lot, clear off!” he says, striding forward. “I thought you were supposed to know when somebody was here who wasn’t in the know.” The doll looks up at him and chitters something high-pitched and possibly Asian. Or R just could be crap at comprehending doll-speak. There’s a thump as another doll smacks the first on the back, and then the doll is talking again. 

“He was asleep,” she says in a much lower pitch and in a language that he understands. Also, _asleep_? He’s got to take back everything he thought about dedication with the kid. “He was asleep,” she repeats herself, “and we didn’t notice him.” Her face is porcelain or something, so it basically stays in the same shape, but her voice betrays how disgruntled she really is. Another doll crosses its arms over its chest. There’s a shuffling in the corner of his eye and R turns to dramatically point at…a shadow puppet. 

“Don’t you dare,” he says. “Remember how hard it is for you guys to climb the stairs? I was only lucky that Valjean came in first. Can you imagine what would have happened if someone else had come in? How am I going to explain that?” The puppet slumped. Courfeyrac has moved to rub Marius’ shoulders and is murmuring soothing nothings to him in the meantime as the guy shakes like a giraffe in the Arctic. R pinches the bridge of his nose and strides over to the elevator. The _ding_ of the button echoes in the hall. 

“Get a statue or someone big enough to push the buttons to get you back down at _least_ ten minutes before sunrise,” he says to the shadow puppets and dolls, who have started filing out of collections as soon as they saw him head towards the elevator. He presses the first floor button before quickly stepping out and watching the doors close. 

“You’re kind,” a familiar voice says from behind him and R nearly jumps out of his skin. 

“Don’t _do_ that,” he gasps, clutching his heart. It’s Enjolras. Of course it’s Enjolras. It would be Enjolras. But he can’t deal with Enjolras right now, he has to deal with Marius. 

He thrusts his cell phone at Enjolras, “Call Valjean, he should know about this.” That done, he turns to approach his next problem. 

“Marius,” he crouches down to where he’s huddled in Courfeyrac’s embrace. “Marius, I need you to take your hands away from your eyes.” It takes a bit of coaxing before Marius actually does, and then a little more to get him sitting on the steps and calmed down enough to comprehend the words R’s going to tell him. 

“Hey, Marius,” he still keeps his voice soft and kind, “how are you feeling now?” Marius gives a small nod. 

“I was surprised,” he admits. “But…I’m not hallucinating? You see them too?” 

“The museum comes to life,” R confirms, nodding slowly. “It’s not in your mind, the collections have come to life. If you go upstairs, you’ll see the paintings moving and the statues have turned to flesh. Don’t they look familiar?” he asks jokingly, pointing to where Courfeyrac is hovering, still in mama bird mode, and Enjolras is speaking into the cell phone. He waits for the news to sink in and then Marius’ eyes widen to the size of quarters. 

“Are they…is he?” 

“Yes, those are –” R is about to say “the _Barricade_ boys,” but Marius interrupts him before he can finish. 

“Is that the Apollo?” he asks. 

Enjolras stiffens, before biting off a reply and ending the call and striding over. 

“ _Don’t call me that_ ,” he hisses making Marius rear back and long forgotten protective instincts rise up in R as he gets in between the two. Courfeyrac makes an aborted move towards them. 

“Whoah, hold up there, Apollo,” R says and as Enjolras’s face turns murderous, he wonders if perhaps they were suicidal instincts instead. He seems on the verge of saying something, but instead he lets out an angry huff and sweeps past the two of them, storming up the stairs like a sulky diva. R goes halfway up the stairs to see what that was all about, but remembers Marius, still huddled on the stairs. Turning around, he sees that Courfeyrac has made his move and the two are now happily chatting. Courfeyrac catches his eye and gives him a discreet thumbs up. It looks like the Marius problem is settled—for the moment at least. 

But Enjolras still has his cell phone and he really should get that back. He hurries up the stairs where one of the other statues (the quiet teenager named Lanoire, he thinks) is perched on the desk. 

“Anyone get murdered?” she asks brightly. 

“Not yet,” he says as the elevator dings yet again and a swarm of artifacts too small to successfully climb the stairs crowd into the elevator going up. 

“I’m probably going to regret that, aren’t I?” 

“Probably,” Joly says, approaching him. “They’ve already gotten Bossuet to act as the button pusher for their elevator adventures. I doubt he’s going to be free at all this night.” Musichetta saunters up, twirling a parasol from one of the shops near her. 

“We might just have to…visit him,” she suggests, smiling wickedly. A deep flush overtakes Joly’s face and _dear lord_ that is a little too much information for R. He directs his gaze up towards the ceiling; he may be shameless, but sometimes people just deserved privacy, whether they wanted to or not. He makes a mental note to avoid the elevator tonight. 

But, because it’s really part of him and he can sometimes be an asshole, he lets out a loud guffaw at Musichetta’s words, causing Joly’s face to transform into the color of a tomato. 

“You have fun with that. But Enjolras has my cell phone—any idea where he went?” 

“He went thataways.” Musichetta points with the parasol. “I think he was going upstairs to the third floor or something.” He gives a grateful nod to her absolutely wicked smirk (as if he has no idea what she’s thinking will happen) and starts trudging up the stairs. He needs the exercise, anyway. 

R hasn’t known Enjolras for long, but even he has noticed his penchant for heights. Whenever Enjolras is truly moved by his emotions, he heads upwards to sort himself out. Like the Batman of the museum or something, he always broods alone. 

With this in mind, R slows his speed, letting his mind run at full tilt as he ponders what to do next. Enjolras is upstairs, probably pacing like a dragon in his lair. Apprehension clings to R, clogging this throat and wrapping slippery arms around his heart as he steps off the last stair and onto the incline plane that leads up to the rest of the third floor. 

And there he is, silhouetted against the glow of the lighting in the museum case as he brings the phone down from his face. His face is like carved stone, and R understands the irony in that metaphor. Slowly but surely, his shoulders lower and slump. R clears his throat and instantly the blue eyes snap open and lock gazes with him. A spark starts from his chest and spreads; soon it feels like he’s stuck his hand in a socket or something. It’s silent except for his slow exhalations. 

Enjolras lowers his eyes first. 

“Valjean knows,” he says. “I told him you had the situation contained, so he wants you to know that he’ll come in tomorrow and talk to Marius.” He offers the phone back to R. 

“Thanks.” It’s suddenly hard to swallow as their fingers meet. They’re all alone in the third floor and all of his world has zeroed down to Enjolras. There’s a buzzing in his skin, and, half hysterically, R realizes that this is the “spark” so many romances talk about, but his attention is captured by the minute details of Enjolras’s face. In the dim lighting, Enjolras glow like there’s a halo behind him, and suddenly it’s too hard to think or do anything. His lips open slightly and R feels a pull, like gravity, like a satellite falling into orbit, to step forward and cover them with his own. He takes a half step forward, and the sweetest sigh falls from those lips as eyelashes flutter in a way that sends his heart thundering to his throat. He can’t do this. Reaching out with his free hand—he really can’t do this—to brush a golden wisp of a curl, he tries to ignore his traitorous heart and how Enjolras sighs and leans in to his hand, before stepping back with his phone. 

“There,” and, wonders upon wonders, his voice doesn’t crack, doesn’t betray the whirling storm of emotions inside. “You had something on your face.” It’s a cop out and he feels something twist inside him, sending barbed spikes into his organs, into his heart. It screws further and it _hurts_. Especially when he notices the lost look on Enjolras’s face. He cannot help but hate himself for allowing it to be placed on Enjolras’s noble brow. The ache in his heart intensifies and he turns to leave. 

He’s pulled back by a hand fisting in his sleeve. 

“Grantaire.” Enjolras’s voice sounds so serious and filled with his usual passion, but muted in a way that he has never heard before. R has to turn, has to see the zeal burning in Enjolras’s eyes like Prometheus’s fire. Blue eyes pin him in place as he turns and he stops, staring into endless fathoms. Enjolras advances, his fist so tightly clenched in R’s uniform that the bones look like they’re ready to pop out, until they are almost nose to nose. R is befuddled; his heart is doing its damndest to beat its way out of his chest and onto the floor. His skin has a whirlwind of butterflies trapped beneath it and his chest feels as if an elephant has stepped on it. R is stunned. R is reverent. Enjolras still stares up at him. He is the most beautiful thing R has ever seen. 

It’s not that R hasn’t seen a lot of beauties in his life, though most never showed the slightest bit of interest in him. Rather than the physical, it’s the fervor, the passionate spirit that Enjolras carries within. For some, it would almost seem as if their soul was too big for their body as they burst out with rhetoric and discourse, but with Enjolras, it’s not a blazing bonfire destined to leave a tattered husk of a person behind once it has cooled (and R has seen that as well). Enjolras has the flame within him, but it does not burn alone. 

In high school, R took pottery, placing clay in the kiln and emerging with ceramics. Enjolras is a kiln; the flame burns hot within him but it doesn’t overtake him and does not burn him. Enjolras _cares_ ; he cares so much for people who don’t even know (and probably don’t even care) that he exists. He’s a person, even though he spends half his time as a statue; and with every breath in him he fights for others. He is beautiful in body and mind and it takes R’s breath away every time he even thinks on it. 

It takes his breath right away, looking into those eyes. That searching gaze, peering into the very depths of his soul, leaving no stone unturned…. 

A sharp exhale bursts out of him like a swallow swooping from its nest and he closes his eyes. Enjolras cannot see what he is inside, a broken, miserable, bitter, caustic mess. He is toxic to everything he touches. He will not sully the pure white marble that is Enjolras with his profane touch. He steps back, still not looking, and disentangles Enjolras from his clothes. 

“Thanks for calling Valjean.” The words do not shake. He is proud of this. He turns and leaves, unwilling to see the emotion on Enjolras’s face. 

“R!” His name is barked with frustration, so tangible he can feel it like a blow on his back. He hurries faster down the stairs, as if he can escape the projecting power of Enjolras’s voice. 

“Grantaire!” 

Of course he can’t, but a man can dream, can’t he? 


	8. In Which the Musain’s Magical History is Explored

Walking away might be one of the most terrible things R has ever done. Worse than making Camille cry, worse than the stinging slap and deathly white face of Floréal, worse than failing out of art school and having to tell his parents, worse than that day two years ago when he stared at the bottle of pills for an hour straight, convinced that everything would be peaceful when it was all over. It was that conviction, actually, that scared him more than anything else, so maybe walking away isn’t the most terrible. But it’s certainly up there. He spends the rest of the night quiet and brooding, skulking in the shadows and generally avoiding everyone. It’s not too hard. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta have all disappeared and unless he integrates himself into a conversation, most of the museum dwellers are absorbed in their own lives and drama.

Some minutes after he makes his escape, Enjolras strides down the stairs like a god descending from Mount Olympus. He is awesome, in the original meaning of the word. His striding gait makes him look as if Apollo himself has come down to grace the world with his presence; and now R understands where the hated nickname comes from. He is glorious.

His jaw is tensed though and his eyes are bright, but not with the glow of the revolution that so usually lights them. R turns his thoughts away from that and turns his back to Enjolras as well. If Enjolras is Apollo, then R is a mere mortal; too mortal to gaze upon the visage of a god without losing his sight. The light hurts his eyes as if he has a hangover (and he is well versed in the art of hangovers) and all he wants is a quiet corner to call his own.

He finds it in collections, where Marius has stopped shaking and is chatting animatedly with Courfeyrac.

For the first time since he’s met him, Marius actually looks happy, not harassed or love-struck or cringing, and with that smile on his face he actually looks a little less like a newborn creature struggling to balance on its own legs. In a flash, R can see the man who Marius may grow up to be and he feels a smile quirk his lips. Given nurturing and time, Marius could really grow up to be something.

They both look up as he comes near them but he waves them away.

“I just need a little time and quiet to myself,” he says.

Marius fumbles with his jacket pocket and procures a key. “This fits into Floréal’s office, I think. She likes you, so I don’t think she’ll mind. Take all the time you need.” Marius is a kind soul, R decides as he takes the keys gratefully, stumbling and fumbling as he tries to open the door. And he’s a good judge of character too, because R knows that if Floréal were here she would insist on R taking her office. Of course she would then proceed to enter the office and interrogate the emotions out of him, but he’s probably one of the only people still living to have seen that side of Floréal.

And so he locks himself in that office until the sun rises and Marius hesitantly knocks on the door. He escorts Marius to Valjean’s tender mercy, leaves a written report for Javert, and then retires home, claiming a headache.

It’s not a lie, but his heart hurts more than his head.

***

Tuesday night is easier. The museum seems to be in a jubilant mood, except for one golden storm cloud that R _does not_ notice, no he doesn’t, what are you even talking about? He’s walking down to help one of the birds get loose from some diorama netting and suddenly hands are over his eyes and familiar giggles lead him from that room and into the painting gallery. He reaches up and pulls the warm hands down to be greeted by sparkling green eyes. It’s Musichetta, waving at him from Jehan’s painting.

She’s sitting on the bank with an incongruous checkered tablecloth and a basket that looks like it came from the _Corinthe_ , piled high with food, and has a slightly damaged tea service in front of her. Jehan trails his feet in the water as three of the five statue kids play ring around the rosie in the background.

“Come and join us! Jehan found a tea set in the bottom of his lake!” She shakes her tea cup merrily at him and the body behind him (most likely Joly or Bossuet) tenses. R, by now, knows exactly what is going to happen and braces for the strange pushing/pulling sensation of entering a painting. When he lands, he makes sure to kick back and, sure enough, he hears the mournful cry of the person behind him getting soaked by his splash. He turns, and it’s not the two he suspected, but Lanoire shaking her sodden curls with good humor.

“See if I ever do something nice for you again,” she calls, before jumping in herself and soaking him to the bone. A wicked smirk twists her face and that, of course, is grounds for a splash war. They manage to rope just about everybody in; finally, slightly chilled, they sit and eat soggy sandwiches.

“It’s not as if they were any better dry,” chortles Lanoire, when she notices R mournfully regarding his.

“Madame Houcheloup is not the cook that her husband was,” Musichetta agrees.

“Did something happen?” R asks.

“He went to explore the further parts of the painting and hasn’t come back yet,” Lanoire says. “And the _Corinthe_ has suffered for it. Jehan, how on _earth_ have you managed to eat half of that?”

“Aesthetic is important,” Jehan says, taking a huge bite out of his. His eyes bug out but he somehow manages to swallow it down. Musichetta gives him an appraising glance.

“One must suffer for one’s art,” he tells her and she laughs so hard she nearly falls into the pond again. The kids have already dissected and abandoned their sandwiches and have left the painting to go find other pursuits.

They joke and laugh around some more before there’s a knocking on the displaced rectangle that opens into the museum. It’s Cosette.

“R? I think you might want to hear this,” she says. He shrugs and gets to his feet. Missing out on these sandwiches is no great loss; but he would have postponed reentry into the museum if he could. He grits his teeth and steps through the hanging frame. Reeling from the displacement, it takes a while for R to regain his balance, so he uses Cosette’s shoulder to keep steady as he looks around.

A group has gathered around the back corner of the gallery, including Enjolras, who is sending strange and pacifying looks toward R, as well as Valjean, who is chatting with a woman in a nearby painting. Coming closer, he realizes that they’re gathered around Bahorel’s portrait. The tension is palpable as Bahorel fusses and fidgets like he is uncomfortable in his own skin before he opens and closes his mouth.

Cosette’s breath is hot in his ear. “Papa convinced Bahorel to tell the story of how the museum came to life again.” Now this, R knows. Despite not knowing the whole story, any artifact will tell you that the magic comes from Bahorel. Nobody is quite sure why the magic came with _him_ as opposed to the myriad of other objects in the museum that could hold some sort of significant magical charge, but everyone agrees that it started with him and Bahorel himself admits to the fact that he was moving and living before he was bequeathed to the museum. R snaps out of his musings as he realizes that he’s missed the beginning of the story.

“She—she was,” Bahorel is just lines of emotion at this point as he rubs his bristly hair back, flattens it down, and then repeats the process. “Felicie was…we just fit together. She and I knew each other and –” he trails off, his distress growing. “I was hers and she was mine. Her laughter was the sound of bells chiming and all other sorts of wonderful things. When we were together she never stopped; she was so kind and forgiving.

“We were engaged to be married, but then there was an accident with a horse and, well…I died and Felicie was…well, she was distraught and living in the house our families had bought for when we were to be married. And then…she just lived in the house alone for a long time. But then there was a day when the rain pelted down in a deluge like no other, the wind rattled the windows in their panes, and when lightning crashed down to earth it wasn’t hard to believe that others thought it the footsteps of gods.

“And then, I just woke up. She had a set of portraits of us, commissioned before our wedding. I don’t know what happened to the one of her, but I was hanging in the parlor and then that day I saw her come in, looking like a wet, bedraggled cat, completely drenched to the bone. She sat in the parlor and just let out these sobs. They were the most horrible thing I had ever heard. She sounded like an animal who had just given up on life. And Felicie was there and she was crying; what else could I do but call out to her? It hurt like worse than any injury I’d have before to see her in such agony—but her face when she heard my voice! It was as if the sun had come out at night, it was so bright.

“I don’t know how or why it happened, but it was a miracle. And when we found out that she could actually enter the painting…” he blushes. “Well, let’s just say that we found ourselves both extremely blessed by that fact.” A light flush dusts his cheeks, but the broad grin that fills his face far outstrips it.

“I don’t remember dying, but I do remember the fall and the pain and the absolutely disgusting feeling of the blood bubbling out of my mouth. I’m glad I don’t remember the dying bit because every time we stumbled across the subject she would just go silent and still. It broke my heart to see her so; so we never talked about it. And it may be too sentimental, but I do know this—I love Felicie with every beat of my heart, with every stroke of paint that covers this canvas. Never think that we painted things don’t have feelings or emotions. We do.”

R holds up his hands. “I never doubted it for a second.”

Joly gives him an elbow to the side. “And it’s all that you’ve been wishing as well for a certain marble statue,” he says in a low voice with a grin.

If R tries hard enough, the flush will not rise to his face. Maybe if he repeats that a couple hundred times it might actually come true. Until then, Joly gets a mortified glare followed by a not so gentle nudge to the cane he’s leaning on. It doesn’t quite knock him off balance, but it does provide a needed distraction for R to put his carefully crafted mask of nonchalance back on.

“But the problem is,” and Bahorel’s voice cracks, “living people don’t have the same lifespan as painted things. I could see her growing older by the day. She wasn’t any less beautiful.” His voice is that of a man still fervently in love but the pain in his eyes shows that their love story has a bittersweet ending. “I had to watch her die,” he admits. “It was one of the most dreadful things I’ve ever had to do. But she loved me and those were her last words.” The gallery is as silent as a graveyard after he ends; solemnity staining the walls and making hearts heavy.

Jehan lets out a sigh. “But, ah!, how you were in love,” says he. A dreamy smile crosses his face; but its fleeting presence only makes the river of pain beneath clearer, a river that R knows well. Later, he will talk to him.

“We were.” Sadness hangs from Bahorel’s face, weighing him down to look like an old man. Probably like the old man he wished he could have become to be with his beloved Felicie. Ah, lost love; R does _not_ look in Enjolras’ direction. There is nothing there but mere attraction and he does not think of the bright passion in blue eyes and how best to make it flare again. He does not touch it, not with a stick the length of the earth to the moon. It is not to be thought of. And yet his traitorous eyes move without his will and he finds himself gazing, his eyes caressing every feature.

Looking back, he catches Bahorel’s knowing look. He wants to protest that it’s not like that, but after such a pained telling of honesty, the lies stick in his throat. He simply can’t admit it.

It’s a heavy story to bear. R thinks about it, pondering the pain of having the one you love age and waste away to nothing while you remain forever trapped in your flesh. The sheer willpower it would take to go on as they love and leave you, though not of their own will. The sheer horror it would be to live on, a half life, your other half gone forever. Chills echo down his spine. How can they survive? Not physically but mentally. Some of these artifacts are hundreds if not thousands of years old. It is a recent enough occurrence though, that maybe no one has truly sorted it out. After all, there is little to interact with when it is night at the museum and, except for Valjean and Cosette, he is the only other visibly aging person who has entered the secret.

When he dies—or if he leaves this job, his brain snarks—will they miss him? Or will he fade into memory, a shade or a ghost that is brought up hundreds of years in the future after all that remains of him has crumbled to dust? Or is he just a mayfly in their day, one moment here, another gone? If he stays—if he manages to stay—what will happen? Is it even worth it? The questions spiral around his mind like a tornado, ripping up every thought in his path.

But the pain in Bahorel’s eyes stays with R, through the rest of the night, through his restless sleep in the day, and then his every hour. It tags along like a faithful hound, never leaving his side until three days later he finally breaks.

“So,” R says to Cosette as they wait for the sun to set, “do you think we could find any record of Bahorel’s Felicie? Y’know, the one who donated his portrait and a bunch of other stuff? Do you think your dad would know?” The stained glass paints her many colors, with a triangle of blue over one eye, a patch of green where her smile is, and a golden yellow that seems to illuminate her. What is with all the blondes and illumination in this museum he wonders tangentially before his focus snaps back to Cosette.

She hums, tapping one elegantly manicured finger against her cheek. “A generous woman by the name of Felicie, why does that sound so familiar?” Her brow furrows. “I swear I’ve heard that name before.” Her hands clutch at her hair as she tugs it harshly. “Why can’t I remember it?!” Her voice, usually sweet sounds out harshly against the silence of the museum. “I swear I’ve heard it somewhere before. “But where?”

“Hey.” He reaches out and touches the soft fabric on her shoulder. “Don’t hurt yourself remembering. It’ll come in time, or well, not, you know?” He shrugs.

“Thank you.” Her voice is flat. “That’s very reassuring.”

The last of the dying sun turns them both pink and he rubs her shoulder as she relaxes under his ministrations. She’s wearing cashmere and it feels fabulous.

“Really. Don’t worry about it.” They stand there, quiet in solidarity, quiet in their musing. It’s a peaceful thing, this time before the magic. There’s no one in the museum and it’s _nice_ to sit with Cosette, who also seems to enjoy the feeling of stillness soothing away the irritation and hurts of the day, giving a calming well to draw upon when it gets too busy or too loud. It’s a rare friend that appreciates the gift of silence and who will take from it with you.

They both feel the pulse of magic at the same time as the sun finally sets, rippling through their bones and pounding through their hearts. It goes deeper than bone, deeper than anything, really, and makes his heart stutter and pound. It’s a mess of contradictions (which is all magic is really, he grouses). And then his heart starts pounding for another reason entirely as Enjolras steps off his barricade.

Given the smirk slanted towards him, Cosette notices the difference as well.

***

Éponine comes in early one day, hauling a small blond boy behind her and followed by a sulking teenager attached to her phone.

“You can go and look at anything you want, just stay in the museum,” she says. The kid wrenches his arm out of her grip with a glare.

“Geez, Éponine. I thought we were going someplace _fun_ ,” he whines.

“If you’re not having fun here, you lack imagination. Don’t do anything to get kicked out,” she says, deadpan. The teenager sighs.

“ _’Ponine_.”

“You can sit your ass down on that bench and do whatever things you want to do with your phone, Azelma. I checked, just for you, good coverage here. And if you’re really nice, Sylvie might give you the password for the wifi.” A long suffering sigh was her response as the teenager stomped off to sulk in the seat. Éponine turns to the boy. “Gavroche, I know you like the taxidermy, go stare at the skeletons.” The boy gives her a saucy wink and disappears into the exhibit.

“Kids?” R quirks a brow. “I didn’t think you were the type.”

“Oh, shut up, R,” she snaps. “They’re my siblings. They’re spending the day with me, so I decided to take them out. Museums count as culture, and god knows they need more culture.”

“So you decided to drag them to the place where you’re working? Won’t that cause chaos? That imp you just unleashed upon the rest of the museum looked to have a spark of mayhem in his eyes.”

“He won’t, if he knows what’s good for him,” she said ominously. “Plus, he likes Sylvie well enough. She sneaks him into the staff kitchen every so often and lets him eat all the goodies.”

“So you’re not unleashing Puck onto the unaware museum stage,” he grins, teasing her.

She stares at him for a few seconds before shaking her head. “You are so full of shit.”

“That I am, milady.” He gives her a player’s bow. “Please enjoy your time at the museum.”

“You can’t say that to me,” she calls after him as he heads out the door. “You’re off the clock now! And I _work_ here!”


	9. In Which Romance Is In the Air

Marius starts staying late at the museum. This is partially because of Cosette who does the same, his infatuation still burning strong, but surprisingly, his newfound friendship with Courfeyrac also plays a role. Apparently the two had bonded, under the pressure of the museum suddenly coming to life and he could often find the two talking; Courfeyrac giving Marius tips on better fashion and how to woo Cosette or telling him of his exploits as a statue that came to life at night. 

Courfeyrac is a charming fellow, light of heart, and filled with boundless kindness. Though they have not talked much, R can see how the man treats each and every person in the museum like they’re made of precious jewels, whether they are or not. He’s taken Marius under his wing, and Marius follows him around like a little duckling. 

Marius takes Courfeyrac’s tips to heart, but puts them through a Marius-filter, with almost disastrously hilarious results. His fashion gets turned inside out so much that even Sylvie, she of the occasional pink kitten sweaters, gives him a raised eyebrow. 

It’s interesting to see how Courfeyrac’s advice goes through the Marius-filter and the expressions on everyone’s faces in the aftermath. There’s one point at which Marius is recommended to wear a dark coat. Apparently the only one he has is green though, so Marius arrives before dawn and leaves after sunset, as his coat looks dark in the absence of light. 

It also turns out that Marius has muscles. Courfeyrac recommends that he show off his muscles as much as possible. The resulting events end up with Sylvie backing Marius into a corner and having a whispered conversation so fierce that he’s bone white for half an hour afterwards. The only thing that she ever said loud enough for interested passers-by to hear was, “leave the heavy lifting to Valjean.” But Marius twitches whenever collections get too loud after that. 

Sylvie, when asked about it—for R is a curious cat and not too afraid of death—merely gives a level glare and says, “If he continues to pick up things too heavy for him, he’s going to drop something and give me a heart attack. I merely told him what would happen if I had a heart attack.” She smiles. It’s not a very nice smile. Sylvie, R is beginning to realize, is not that gentle of a person. He happens to mention this to her and her smile drops. 

“I know that,” she sighs, massaging the bridge of her nose, “but Marius is just so _careless_ sometimes. Some people need a good spook in order to work well, I’ve found. Marius is one of those people.” 

“That sounds a little mean,” he offers. 

Her smile is sharp. “If I had time to be gentle, then nothing would get done. That’s what my old Aunt ‘Lissy used to say.” 

*** 

Her words echo with R that night. Some people can’t be gentle to get things done. It’s the first time he’s ever heard the sentiment so blatantly said, and it’s a little bit nice to hear it thus. His thoughts move on like drifting clouds, and then Enjolras is there, leaning over the counter, scribbling furiously on a piece of paper. Another letter, R supposes, sent to another person in a newspaper who doesn’t really care. 

R finds his gaze arrested once again by the perfect profile of Enjolras. The lighting is just so and he seems to be haloed by the light; inhuman in a way that only he appears to be. If only he had a brush and canvas! The ache for them is real, even if the image he envisions could never be properly translated to the canvas. It’s impossible, anyway. 

He finds himself glancing over again at the same time Enjolras looks up and…he can’t look away. It’s paralyzing and wonderful and terrible and exhilarating all at the same time. He’s a rabbit in the shadow of a hawk, the deer in front of the headlights. He’s transfixed by the golden medusa before him. Somehow he manages to rip himself away from the terrible gaze, his cheeks burning, his heart working overtime. He can almost imagine the moue of disappointment on the face before him and it makes him feel like running. But he can’t find it in himself to move. A brief glance upward shows familiar feet moving towards him, and suddenly it _is_ very easy to move. 

He lets his eyes drop back to his feet, and he walks away. Somebody has to make sure that the crocodile pot doesn’t wander out of its enclosure and terrify the populace. And, if he gets sidetracked on his way over—a debate with Feuilly, joking with Bossuet—then, well…a little bit of excitement never hurt the museum anyway. He doesn’t think about what could have gone differently that night if he hadn’t walked away. He _doesn’t_ —and anyone who says otherwise is a liar. 

*** 

But the museum moves and grows in the most interesting of ways. Cosette’s started to hang around Marius more often. He hasn’t actually seen her in action, but the tell-tale blush that never seems to go away is on Marius’s cheeks and there’s a certain amount of grumpiness in Valjean’s gait. R is impressed by the sheer fact that he is dating (or at least crushing on) one of his direct supervisor’s kids, who’s also working at the same place as he is. The problem is, he figures, that it’s not bravery on Marius’s part, but plain foolishness. Or he just could not be noticing the glowering. Though how he manages that is more of a mystery than the museum’s magic. 

Among the docents, Éponine’s pining has ramped up to the nth degree, and she’s got bags under her eyes; Louison refuses to talk about it. 

“I’m not gossiping about my coworkers, no matter how nauseating they may be, and I need your help,” she responds when he asks her. Apparently the cucumbers are still disappearing despite elaborate pulley systems, beepy alarms, and all other sorts of traps. 

“I’m at my wit’s end,” she admits, running her hand through her long hair. “Any other ideas not involving water guns that may backfire terribly on me?” Something about her situation strikes a chime in his mind. 

“What about just leaving an offering out or something? Maybe they’ll be happy with that and stop stealing?” The look she gives him could freeze a polar bear. 

“Are you kidding me?” With a flip of her hair she leaves. She calls over her shoulder, “That’s called giving up in my book, R, and I’m not the type to do so!” 

*** 

That night he finds Cosette hunched over the decrepit keyboard in collections, clicking rapidly on various links or something online. 

“You sure look busy for someone who shouldn’t be working overtime,” he says, settling himself on the desk next to her. “Won’t Floréal get upset again?” 

“Floréal won’t get upset because I’m doing my own thing right now, not museum business. I’m off the clock. And I still can’t think of where I heard of Bahorel’s fiancée.” 

“Why don’t we just head upstairs then,” R suggests with a smile. “Maybe a change of scenery will do you some good.” She looks reluctant, but he manages to cajole her out of the cave that is collections and into walking the galleries. She’s still miles away, though. Her face is in what R likes to call “muse-mode” and she barely responds to any of his comments. He doesn’t take it personally—she’s clearly got something on her mind. She stops suddenly and turns to him. 

“What was her name again?” 

He blinks. 

“What? Bahorel’s fiancée? Some ‘Licie ‘Eudonne, or something. Cosette, I don’t know.” Cosette wrinkles her nose in concentration and bites her lip. It should not be as cute as it is. 

“Felicie, Felicie Dieudonne, I think. It’s terribly tragic, is it not?” Jehan says, gazing dreamily past them. R jumps. He sometimes forgets that paintings will do that to you. A quick glance shows Bahorel’s painting ensconced in a debate with Bossuet and not listening at all. 

“A pair of fated lovers, one doomed to eternal life as the other one ages, weakened by the ravages of time, and is then lost.” Jehan’s tone is near euphoric, caught in some romantic fantasy or something. R never really went for the capital-R Romanticism, despite the multitude of puns he could have made. The transience of nature and the decay of life were constants, not things to be cherished or valued. They were the tenets of life that everyone tried to ignore and paint over with happy lies. R is a cynic. He has accepted their existence, but that doesn’t mean that he ruminates on them, doting on their poetry as if by the simple act of accepting them he has found the meaning of life. The meaning of life is that there is no meaning. And that is that. 

Cosette gives him a brilliant smile. “I suppose so, Jehan, but at the end of the day, I’m looking for a happy ending.” 

“At the end of the day, you’re another day older,” Jehan says. “Let the emotions take you away, instead. Focus on the passion, the emotion of life.” 

“And then at the end you’re still one day nearer to dying,” R says, cutting him off. “Come on now, Jehan. It might be Romantic—capital R there, just so you know—but Bahorel’s still clearly upset over it and it happened how long ago?” 

“About twenty eight years,” Cosette chimes in. “Since he was donated,” she hastily adds, “not how long they’ve been together. 

“It is romantic,” she adds, “but not in the way you two are telling it. It’s just sad as well. Now where have I heard her _name_ before?” 

This type of back and forth continues on into the night until around eleven o’clock, when headlight beams pierce the front windows and everyone freezes. 

Their fright was all for naught, for it is Valjean who comes in, looking to pick up Cosette for the night. He comes in as they’re still talking. 

“But I have heard that name before, in a non-museum place!” Cosette seems distressed. “I know I have, but I don’t remember!” One large hand descends on her shoulder, the weight seemingly breaking through her flurry of emotions. 

“Calm, Cosette,” Valjean rumbles gravely, like an avalanche. “Your emotions will get the better of you.” For such a large and intimidating looking man, Valjean is a fountain of calm in the storm. Cosette takes a couple of steady, deep breaths and nods. 

“Okay, Papa.” 

“You remember her name from this museum? There is a collection named after her.” 

“Not that, Papa. From somewhere else.” 

“Another workplace or school assignment maybe?” R offers. At his words a flame lights in Cosette’s eyes and he quickly finds his hands enveloped in hers. 

“That’s it! From the Historical Society, oh, R, that’s it!” Her delight is infectious and the dreary mood hanging around the museum seems to lift. 

“Oh,” and here she nearly starts dancing, feet tapping in patterns as she bounces around, “I think I know how to fix this! I just need to talk to Bahorel tonight.” She spins around to beam at both of them. “This could be it!” 

And with her excitement, R finds his lips twitching into a smile. “I sure hope so.” 

*** 

After Cosette leaves, he gathers up all his loose sparking nerves to talk with Feuilly as Combeferre had recommended. Feuilly—or rather the man Feuilly had been sculpted from—had been an artist. R is merely a failed art student; there are a myriad of ways this could go wrong. It is with trepidation that he comes over to start a conversation. 

“So, what was with all the fans in your paintings?” It just blurts out; he was going to ask about chiaroscuro, about oil painting techniques, but his mouth babbled before his brain could even work. He wants to kick himself, shame creeping up his face with hot fingers. It’s well-documented in academia that despite painting battlefields and revolutionaries, like his fellow Romantics, Feuilly focused on portraits, especially of fashion close ups and young women. Feuilly, though, doesn’t seem to notice or mind. 

“Well,” said he, “this was during what is now called the Romantic period in Poland. My patron at the time had a fan factory and I would work with his designers to incorporate what I could into them. It pleased him and paid me; I couldn’t find a better deal than that. But what I do wish,” and here he looked as if he wished he had arms to stroke his face, “that my paintings of the battlefield had been more famous. Everyone here now knows me for my fans, but I was more proud of those paintings, which I painted on my own time, than anything else.” 

R is shocked, R is blown away, R can barely breathe. “You had other paintings of the revolution, like Malczewski or Grottger?” he finally manages to ask, mouth paper dry. 

“Of course!” Feuilly looks indignant. And after that it’s a beautiful conversation, talking about history, techniques, and even hilarious stories of people long dead. R doesn’t know how the magic brings them to life, but it is very much worth it. Eventually the hours pass and their conversation dries up. It’s an uncomfortable pause and R shifts nervously in his shoes. But then Feuilly smiles, eyes crinkling up. 

“This has been fun,” he says, and R feels the tension which had been ratcheting his shoulders up to his ears—and trapping his fluttering heart—dissipate with those words. 

“Hasn’t it?” he asks, a grin spreading across his face and bravado sending the blood running back through his veins. “We should do it again sometime.” Warm fuzzies of relief dance across his face as Feuilly smiles and nods. 

“I’d like that.” 

*** 

It’s much later in the week and some sleepless nights for Cosette later (if the state of the bags under her eyes counts as evidence) that he tries to coax her to do something other than rip her brain to shred in her search for Felicie. 

“Hey, Cosette, wanna come and try one of the sandwiches at the Corinthe with me?” he asks. “We can make a picnic and maybe try and explore that surrealist painting a bit.” Cosette gives him a small smile. 

“I think that may be quite impossible, R.” She takes her hand and gently presses it on one of the nearby paintings, a bucolic pasture scene. Nothing happens. Grabbing R’s flashlight, she takes it up and—to R’s immediate horror—throws it at the painting. He makes a very high pitched sound, fear tightening around his throat, which then changes into surprise as the painting ripples and suddenly there’s a flashlight in it. 

“Wait a second.” Despite seeing magic on a daily basis now, R is still being surprised by things. “Cosette, what did you just do? Are you like a witch or something?” He takes a half step back. People could go in paintings and objects could accompany them, but throwing something was a sure way for the painting and its inhabitants to get injured. Valjean had told him that the very first night. And yet Cosette…? 

“Now that I figured out, are you going to take my eyes?” His hands come up in an instinctual warding gesture. “I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about. I promise. Please don’t hex me, oh Hecate.” 

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, R, really? I’m not a witch, I promise. Put your hands down.” She has a calming air around her and, chastened, R does as she asks. “Did Sylvie tell you about the last night guard?” 

R blinks, thrown off by the non sequitur. “I think she did. Your dad caught him doing something bad to one of the paintings, right?” 

A faint blush dusts her cheeks as she looks down. “It was a little bit more than ‘something bad,’ I’m afraid to tell you.” She shifts from foot to foot, looking anywhere but in his direction. 

“What she’s trying to say,” Feuilly pipes in, “is that he decided that having fun and seducing a painting was a good way to spend his time on the job. Since she wasn’t a person, it didn’t really matter, did it?” His voice is bitter, and the look on his face could sour fresh milk. Cosette still isn’t meeting R’s eyes. 

“When Papa found out about it, it was because she had gotten pregnant.” Her voice is low. R wants to ask how a painting and a human can have a child together, but the uneasiness cloaking the room makes him keep his mouth closed. “The guard wanted nothing to do with her because she wasn’t human. He couldn’t have cared less about the child. 

“Papa got him fired, but the damage was done. And it turned out that a half human half painting child couldn’t live in canvas. So he adopted the child as his own.” 

It’s implied but still near impossible. Cosette is…? “Wow,” he drawls. “What a dick. He didn’t want anything to do with you?” 

“And I him,” she grimly responds. Damn. _Damn_. Feuilly is silent in his corner. 

“So that painting you and Valjean take out every so often?” 

“My mother,” she says softly. “It nearly killed her. I can’t see her that often.” It’s only because he’s watching her face closely that he sees her tears. 

“Oh, hey now, hey now. Please don’t cry,” he begs. “I don’t know what to do when people cry. Come here.” He grabs her and hugs her. “You don’t think I’m going to think of you differently because of this, Cosette, do you? Everyone in here is a person, despite their lack of activity during daylight. Cosette, please stop.” He feels helpless as she clings to him, her fists clenched against the back of his shirt, shaking. Feuilly is giving him an appraising look as he strokes her back, trying to soothe her. 

“Cosette,” Feuilly says. “Listen to R. None of us here would hold it against you for who your parents were.” 

She steps back, wiping at her eyes. “Thank you,” she says softly. “I don’t really know why I’m crying, but…” 

“But nothing,” R firmly interrupts. “Do you want to call your Dad to talk to him or something?” 

“No.” She’s stopped sniffling. “I think I’m going to go talk to Mama.” 

“Sounds like a good plan.” He gently chucks her under her chin. “Cheer up, darling. You’re the brightness of this museum. If you don’t smile, how on this great, green earth are we going to light the exhibits?” She lets out a watery chuckle and bids them farewell before exiting to head down to collections. 

“That was nicely done,” Feuilly comments quietly in the silence that followed. “Fantine didn’t deserve to go through that, but her daughter is the light of her life.” 

“You knew her?” 

“We all knew Fantine. She was one of the more social paintings, much like the _Corinthe_. Are you surprised?” 

“Well, I didn’t expect Cosette to be half painting,” he admits. “That’s not something that someone would automatically assume. But she can’t enter paintings then?” 

“No, she can’t,” Feuilly sighs. “She can’t even touch her mother.” 

A gusty sigh lets its way loose. “Now that is a tragedy worthy of the Greeks.” 

“Indeed it is.” 

R looks at the pasture again, now with its added flashlight. “I’m going to have to go get that, aren’t I?” he asks the empty air around him. “Couldn’t she have thrown something that nobody would have noticed?” 

“You’ll find that the most avid art fan will notice just about anything,” Feuilly commiserates. “Once I had six art students examining my face because I was smiling when the sun came up. We really have to be careful here.” 

“You do have to be careful of students here,” another painting (R can’t remember his name!) says, trying to peer around his frame. “Otherwise…things happen.” 

“Wait…” A sudden sinking feeling engulfs him. He feels like he’s thinking through molasses. “There was an art student….” 

“Oh, Francis,” Marguerite in a nearby painting laughs. “Oh, Dahlia, Zephine, and Favourite had fun with that!” 

“They almost got us all found out because they were _drunk_ ,” Feuilly points out. 

“But it was hilarious to see his reactions,” Marguerite says, snorting. “The sheer confusion in his tone…!” 

“It was funny the first time, I’ll give you that. But when it continued on for the rest of the week, I felt pretty bad for the poor boy. He was only trying to work on his thesis… 

“Those three,” he sighs, shaking his head. He catches a glimpse of R’s face, and whatever it may show seems to alarm him enough for him to add, “They were reprimanded, of course. Who knows what would have happened if people actually _noticed_ and found out. We’d be in trouble then. I think Valjean lectured them and now they’re in collections where they can’t disturb anyone else. Now _there’s_ a lecture we give newcomers.” 


	10. In Which Cosette Finds Something Important

Somehow R has always managed to miss it, but today is the day he doesn’t. One of Enjolras’s letters had been published in the previous issue and the responses in today’s paper are…varied. Chief in them, R recognizes his father’s punishing quill in the chief of them, and feels a sick quavering inside him. It’s stupid, because Enjolras is the type of person who judges you on your actions and not your family’s but still, it sets in him, bone deep. 

When he’s done reading, Enjolras is white as his marble in daylight. He furiously strides over to the case where Valjean and R stash his stamps grabs one, a sheet of paper, and a pen, and storms upstairs. A low chattering follows in his wake, as R goes to pick up the newspaper. 

The responding letter is…quite terrible, actually. It is his father—he should have known—but what he’s arguing for is a cut to funding for local museums and the bottom drops out of his stomach. His mother, for all her distance and faults, used take him and Camille as young children to museums. They’d stare at collections of stones, priceless artifacts, pose with the skeletons and taxidermy. It was their time to be a family. But apparently not to his father. 

It’s simple math, the letter proclaims. Cut the funding and reap the profits. Museums aren’t important in this electronic day and age. There are better things to focus on, but what things he doesn’t say. R can find several holes in the argument; he’s become an expert at ferreting out what will most likely piss his father off. But there’s the small child within him who still shakes and cries at the very idea of challenging him in a public forum. Their fights are best left to the house, where Camille sits in her room, hugging her stuffed fox tightly, and where the corners of his mother’s mouth tighten until they’re white with dismay. Where the doors slam with regularity and disparaging words flower like daisies in a meadow. An unpleasant taste rises in his mouth as he decides to follow Enjolras upstairs. A Grantaire caused this and a Grantaire may attempt to apologize and maybe—in his wildest dreams—fix it. 

He finds Enjolras in the manor house in the Days of Yesteryear, curled up on the couch, staring angrily at the blank paper. Perhaps rage has rendered him mute in words as well as voice? But whatever it is, his shoulders are hunched up, high like the hackles of an angered dog, and he doesn’t even comment when R gingerly sits next to him. It’s like he’s marble again, the marble-made-flesh still as rock. If it weren’t for the slight rise and fall of his chest, R would mistake him for an extremely well-made mannequin. 

He raises a hand to touch him, but stops. Why would Enjolras be interested in comfort from R? He ignores the initial impulse and lets his hand drop. Enjolras startles, but then—gloriously—leans in, a muffled something escaping his lips. At this, extending another arm to hold him feels like second nature. Enjolras willingly falls into his embrace and, within moments, is tightly wrapped around him. He lets one hand card through golden silk. Enjolras sights and snuggles close, and the sheer amount of heat that rushes to R’s face may make him spontaneously combust. 

They stay that way for the rest of the night, pen and paper forgotten on the floor. It’s not until Musichetta, Bossuet, and Joly make their way upstairs that Enjolras disentangles himself from R and stands up. 

“Thank you.” His soft smile brightens his severe face and it is with horror that R finds himself wanting to caress that very face, to smooth the wrinkle lines and bring his lips to… 

No. 

He cannot think of that. 

He will not think of that. 

Enjolras lingers, before turning and heading back downstairs. R sits on the couch until the strange shadows of daylight begin to streak the floor. Then he stands up, pocketing the pen, paper, and stamp. Floréal will probably raise a ruckus if she finds it, so it’s in everybody’s best interests. He waits for Javert, makes his report, and heads home. 

*** 

He gets home to find his mother sitting bleary-eyed at the table, hand around a cup of coffee. She’s still in her bathrobe and her hair is pulled into a messy bun. She looks nothing like the well-coiffed businesswoman she usually is. She looks up as he comes in, and he notices the red rimming her eyes and the bottle of Jack next to the French press. 

“Mom?”And damn if his voice doesn’t waver like he’s five years old again. Damn it! 

“It’s nothing, Rémi,” and she uses her fake voice; her “soothe the child with lies” voice. It stopped working on him when he was eight and they both know it, but she never stopped using it. “I just didn’t feel that good today. Your sister is always telling me that I need to rest more often.” It’s true. She spends most of her time at work, leaving his father grumbling every day about poor meals and the pursed lips and scornful looks of his grandparents whenever they came over. 

She rakes a hand through her hair, turning it into more of a bird’s nest. “You must be tired though, working all night long at the Musain. Do you remember?” She trails off, staring unhappily at her coffee. And R does remember. He remembers her actually laughing and taking him to see museums, to go to the boardwalks and eat street food. He remembers a lot of things his mother doesn’t do any more. And she’s done a lot worse after she stopped. But now he’s just had a day of work, he’s tired, and he cannot deal with her. He heads for the fridge. 

“I saved some spaghetti for you,” she says, her head snapping up as he opens the door. “The pasta’s a bit crunchy but it’s fine other than that.” Her piece said, she picks up her coffee cup and shuffles back to her room. He stares for a while at her retreating back. One of the things they used to make together was spaghetti—his favorite food. 

He pops the glass container in the microwave and lets it heat. She’s right—it is crunchy, but her meatballs are fantastic. Eating quickly almost burns his mouth, but he’s finished soon, and shoves everything into the dishwasher so he can shower and head to bed. He hears her shuffling from inside the bedroom, but she doesn’t come out again. 

The hallway from his bedroom to hers is long and somewhat intimidating. Rapping his knuckles gently on the door, he calls, “I’m going to bed, Mom. ‘Night.” 

There’s no response. 

*** 

Marius stays late the next night. It’s a little out of the ordinary because, for once, Cosette isn’t there, but with the strange friendship that has sprung up between him and Courfeyrac, it’s not too strange. R doesn’t _hover_ , per say, but he does make a habit to check in frequently with Marius. One time, while in a painting, Marius had almost forgotten when dawn was, and R had had to haul him out, much to everyone’s chagrin. Because of the lateness of his exit, the painting had frozen in a way that was not as it had originally been painted. It was always a risk when the wild ones in collections had fun. 

Unlike the paintings and objects on display in the exhibits, collections wasn’t as closely monitored by the public. One could occasionally get away with a frozen surface that was different than its original conception, because it wasn’t as strictly monitored by dozens of eyes. In fact, only Valjean, Sylvie, Cosette, and Marius walked along the collection rooms, and since three were in the know, it was easy to keep the subterfuge up. 

But Marius does not seem to be thinking of dawn hopping (what the museum denizens call courting the magic that comes with daylight) and instead is deeply embroiled in a conversation with Courfeyrac. It seems that Courfeyrac’s got it under control, and so R finds himself making his way down to collections because one of the paintings tipped him off to the fact that the Japanese dolls are attempting a kabuki play. After a judicious application of Google, he decides that talking to the dolls about not using face paint is probably something important he should do. 

He finds them in one of the far corners, calling to each other in what he assumes is Japanese, and practicing. It’s kinda cute to watch them call out something shrilly and then stomp into a pose that lasts for a couple of seconds. Interrupting is rude, but Sylvie finding new face paint on old dolls is probably a nuclear explosion waiting to happen; he clears his throat. 

“Hey, guys?” Years of watching horror movies make him jump when their heads swivel around on their bodies, but he remains strong. “We’re all really excited to see your new play—sorry, kabuki performance—but you do realize that you can’t change your clothing or wear face paint?” For some reason, doll faces aren’t flexible enough to show emotion (despite statues turning into flesh and mannequins growing faces) but their slumped shoulders and depressed airs tell R more than a simple expression ever could. 

“We wanted to talk to you about that,” pipes up one female-looking doll from the edge. “We do not want the masquerade to lift, but we would like to use appropriate costume.” She comes up to him. “Sometimes Lord Valjean or Little Cosette will bring _washi_ paper to use to make. We have not talked to them for some time, but maybe you could ask?” Her eyes look up at him, hopeful despite being painted. 

“And computers can be used for more than collections, ne?” another doll pipes in. “The makeup and costume can be seen on the internet, so you know the right ones to get.” 

R thinks for a moment—that takes care of the clothing but not the faces. “Could I find the makeup online and print out faces for you guys to use as masks?” This prompts a flurry of conversation, half in Japanese, half in English, with screechings of “No!” and it’s near violence. “I’m sorry?” he asks. 

The first doll shakes her head. “Masks are bad for kabuki,” she states. 

“No masks in kabuki.” Another shakes its head in disgust. There’s a scuffling sound in the shelf beside them and R looks up to see three statues peering over the edge. 

“Maybe interchangeable masks on sticks?” one suggests. 

“That way you can keep the makeup and the expressions as you change them,” the middle one says. The third just stares as a wave of nods overtakes the doll group and a swell of relief bubbles up in R. 

“Thank you…” he waits for their names. 

“Oh,” the first flutters, “I’m Thalia and this is Calliope and Melpomene. We’re really excited to see the end result,” she adds to the group of dolls. R is aghast. Of course the muses would take after their namesakes, but… 

He finds himself kneeling on the cool cement floor. Of course magic exists and the paintings and statues and busts of real life people remember what they’ve done in the past, but it’s one thing to see that and quite another thing to wonder if the gods themselves inhabit the statues that are carved for them. It’s a research opportunity in the making. Ask the Apollo himself what stories are true or not; pray to the muses for inspiration and they may actually grant it to you. It’s too much to contemplate if the statues themselves hold the powers that their counterparts are known for. Maybe later, but dear god is his world shaken around him. The foundations are crumbling, the world is blurring, and is this going to happen every time he meets a new aspect of magic? 

The first doll places her hand on his knee. 

“Are you well?” she asks. 

He forces a smile, seeing her worried head-tilt. “Just fine. I’ve been up on my feet and needed a break.” 

The doll that seems to be constantly kneeling lets out a laugh. “I wish I could say the same,” he chortles. 

The first doll makes a motion with her hand and a male doll scurries forward. “Maruhei no Jiiro will show you the proper faces and names,” she says shortly as another doll hurries up, “and Yoshitoku no Hinano will show you the patterns she needs.” Both dolls allow him to gently cradle them in his arms. 

“I’ll probably send them back down with Marius, if that’s okay?” He directs the question to all, because lady-in-charge doll may be running the show, but Maruhei no Jiiro and Yoshitoku no Hinano are the ones going with him and gosh, dealing with people, living dolls or otherwise, is just such a pain sometimes. All three of them nod, so there’s that, and then he takes them right back upstairs to the computer. 

It’s amusing to see a small doll like Maruhei attempt to work the mouse, but adorable to see Yoshitoku poke at alphabet keys the size of her hands. 

“Mensho no Rei didn’t tell you which one we were doing, ne?” Yoshitoku asks, somehow managing to manipulate the computer’s typing into Japanese. 

“We’re doing _Sagi Musume_ and a couple of others,” Maruhei says from his position on the mouse pad. 

“We’ll never be as good as Tamasaburo,” Yoshitoku says, clicking on several links and bringing up some gorgeous looking kimono, “but Mensho no Rei has a vision.” 

“A vision,” echoes Maruhei. “歌舞伎においては男性役も女性役も、すべて男優が演じるぞ。” Yoshitoku’s head snaps over. 

“出雲の阿国は男の人でしたか。” she says sweetly, but with promise of retribution in her voice. “ウィキペディアは彼女が女性と言っています,” she continues. R blinks at the sudden descent into Japanese but decides it’s not worth it to question. 

Eventually they end up with several tabs of costumes and possible paper that R can bring in. He emails his links to his phone and then sends the dolls off to bother Marius, who’s still talking with Courfeyrac. 

*** 

He stays at the museum a little bit later to talk to Valjean about the dolls’ request, which results in him going to bed a little bit later than normal. Waking up the next morning is an agony usually reserved for all-nighters with no caffeine but he somehow manages to make it out and to work on time. Heading in the doors, he clutches his coffee—black as my soul, he’d joked to the barista—close as he savors the ambrosia of Olympus. He’s barely made it through the door, however, before Marius is stumbling over his feet from where he has been sitting like a folded puppet. 

“R, Cosette needs you downstairs, quickly!” R’s first emotion is confusion: it’s a Thursday, not one of the days Cosette is scheduled to work at the museum, but he dutifully follows the instructions set out by Marius, walking around the front desk and then heading thorough the door part of the mural that led to the stairs to collections. Sylvie calls Marius into the taxidermy room and, as his footsteps march off, R heads down into the coolness of the basement. Cosette is sitting in one of the squishy chairs that doesn’t quite match the décor of the bleak halls; her head snaps up as he comes down. 

“R, R, look!” Cosette scrambles off the chair and towards him, clutching something large and flat wrapped in fabric. “I knew I had heard her name before! I got this as part of an estate sale. R, look!” She pulls the fabric slightly off the side, revealing a heart shaped face, emerald eyes set in deeply tanned skin, and a swirl of dishwater blonde hair pinned neatly but haphazardly in a bun. A tight feeling washes down over R, centering in his chest. 

“Is that…?” He can barely get the concept out, anticipation, wonder, and a small hint of fear clogging his throat. 

If Cosette nods her head any faster, he would suspect her of being a bobblehead in a human suit. 

“It is! It really is!” 

“Well, _damn_.” He needs to find a chair and goes towards the one Cosette so recently vacated. He finds himself looking back at her, neck craned upward. She’s haloed in the cheap light and the joy on her face makes her look like more of an angel than she usually does. 

“It is?” The question weighs heavy on his tongue. 

“It is!” Her squeal nearly hits dog whistle ranges. 

“Will it work?” 

“I don’t know, but it’s worth a try, isn’t it?” A worry line creases her brow. He feels the wave of happiness lapping at his feet and then cresting to engulf the rest of him. A joyous laugh breaks free as he jumps up and embraces Cosette, portrait and all. 

“Bahorel is going to be so happy!” he cries. “And Jehan may mope a bit but—my god, Cosette—you are a damn fine researcher, no matter what anybody says. You are completely top notch, a veritable female Callimachus from the Library of Alexandria. The heavens themselves tremble in fear of what you will discover next.” A pleased flush takes up residence on her face as he steps back, and a warm feeling arises from the realization that he placed it there. She tightens her arms around the precious package and beams. 

“Marius and I are going to wait with her in collections tonight, just to make sure it works. Don’t let anyone know. If it doesn’t work, it…it might break him, R.” 

“I understand. You can count on me, Cosette, promise.” He feels sobriety chase away the high of his previous happiness. 

“So you and Marius, waiting downstairs…alone….” He waggles his eyebrows as she mock swipes at him. Smiling again, she disappears down the hallway that leads to the collections room, leaving R to his musings as he returns to start his shift. He does have a job, after all; he is the night guard and the museum is closing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I am very fond of Japanese dolls and kabuki, so a couple of notes:
> 
> Each of the Japanese dolls has its name from a famous doll maker in Japan. As is traditional, it goes [Dollmaker] no [Name]. The "no" means of, so we have Jiiro of the Maruhei, Hinano of the Yoshitoku, etc., etc. Grantaire doesn't speak Japanese, so he assumes that their dollmaker name is their first name (we can forgive him).
> 
> Kabuki is a type of traditional Japanese theater characterized by white makeup and elaborate costumes. However there is another type of traditional Japanese theater called Noh (pronounced "no"), which uses masks instead of makeup. This is what the dolls are shouting about during their arguments, with the "no masks" as well as their wailing of "no" (but, again, Grantaire doesn't know Japanese, so we forgive him yet again)
> 
> To read the translations of the Japanese text, please hover over the words
> 
> Izumo no Okuni is the founder of kabuki. However due to prostitution and laws during the Edo Period (1603-1868), all female performance was banned and instead all roles were played by males (this...really didn't stop any of the prostitution as it was supposed to).


	11. In Which There Are Ruffians

It’s a pretty peaceful night. R keeps away from collections so that Cosette and Marius can have some alone time without a looming Papa in the background, and makes his rounds. He manages to catch Enjolras writing another letter and sits down next to him. 

“So what injustice are you writing to the paper today about?” he asks cheekily. 

Enjolras looks up, passion burning in his gaze, and goes off. It’s got something to do with bombs being dropped, innocent civilians dying, and The People (capitals implied) being oppressed. 

Even though he doesn’t believe that any of that can be fixed by a mere letter-writing campaign, R listens. There’s something powerful about the passion in Enjolras’s tone. If others could hear it, he’s sure that there would be some sort of reaction, be it protest or riot, if only Enjolras could walk in daylight. It’s a sad sort of tragedy: a man who cares so much about a world he’s not—nor will ever be—a part of. And yet R finds the corners of his mouth turning up, charmed by the fervor and energy that Enjolras puts into himself and others. It’s a curious sensation to be so totally taken by another’s enthusiasm that you’re bobbing in the sea of their excitement, cresting along with the same waves they do—even if it’s ridiculously naïve. Enjolras may be the revolution personified, but clearly he’s never dealt with the people he talks about. 

He blinks as he’s realized Enjolras has stopped talking. There’s a strange expression on his face and it’s hypnotizing, magnetizing almost. There’s no force that drags him in, but he’s pulled all the same. A shortness of breath seizes his lungs and there’s hedgehogs running under his skin, the beating of trapped birds through his organs. He’s not close enough, but he’s _too close_ and the duality is killing him. The face before him tilts up and it’s all he can do to keep from touching it. 

Nails bite his skin as his hand curls into a fist. A heavy sigh tries to overtake him before he turns away. There’s a hand, burning like a brand on his shoulder, and if he closes his eyes, he can feel the brush of gold curls on his neck. 

“R,” Enjolras says. “Why…?” And he seems to lose his words. 

Color filters back in as R opens his eyes and faces him again. He takes the hand on his shoulder and holds it tight. 

“Enjolras,” and it is half petition, half a sigh. Enjolras has moved so now he’s standing over R in his chair and they are close enough to touch, close enough to breathe the other’s air if Enjolras would just move a bit _closer_. R wets his lips, involuntarily, unconsciously, and something shifts in Enjolras’s expression. This is what Daphne must have seen, this is what Hades must have felt when touched with Eros’s arrow. It is all-burning, all-consuming, and it envelops him like a blazing inferno. It hurts as much as it warms, and it makes him quiver down to his bones as it builds him back up again. There’s a trembling deep-set at his very core, and all he can think about is the one point of contact they have, skin on skin, and it’s taking him out of control. 

The blue eyes before him are deep, dark pools now, and they come closer, threatening to envelop him, to drag him down to their depths and keep him there, like the sirens and mermaids of old. He’d go willingly, too. It’s not just a pretty face that lures him; there’s so much more to Enjolras than that. He’s no Pygmalion, but could there be any chance that Enjolras was Galatea? 

There’s a small cough nearby and R reels back, chair tipping wildly out of control and slamming him to the ground. He blinks, spell broken, to see Combeferre standing in the distance and giving them a Look. 

R’s familiar with Looks. He’s grown up with them all his life, be it his mother when he failed yet another task, Camille when he missed yet another sibling bonding opportunity, Floréal when he did something stupid, self destructive, and out of character. But this is a different type of look. It combines his mother’s disappointment with Floréal’s spitfire fury. It’s a little nerve-wracking to see a person who can channel both enough that he can notice it through an aching head. Still standing above him, Enjolras shifts and then walks away, towards Combeferre. 

There’s a strange accord among the statues who are connected. The children dancing in a circle move like a school of fish, always weaving in and out with each other. Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras seem to be not only connected at the hip but always in tune with each other. It makes sense, because they were created together and have lived practically connected to each other for years, but if R didn’t know better, he’d swear they were telepathically linked or something. Or a hivemind. 

His brain, now on that trail, decides to spit out images of Enjolras as the angler fish like lure that drags people back to the hungry hivemind who will then rend his flesh and bones in some sort of blood sacrifice for the magic happening. Who knows—it could happen! 

When he arises from his musings, Enjolras and Combeferre have left; not even the echoes of their footsteps remain. R raises himself and heads down to see his favorite band of merry mannequins. 

They see him coming and greet him with a cheer, as they’re gathered around one of the storefronts. 

“R, come over!” Bossuet cheerily calls. “Musichetta’s critiquing fashion again!” It’s with a glad heart that he joins them. These three always manage to buoy him up into better spirits no matter what. It doesn’t hurt that they’ve got great senses of humor and a fondness that borders upon obscene for puns. 

“That fan, ugh. Just looking at those tacky feathers makes me ostr-itch!” 

“Well better than those shoes, they’re so holey that they belong in a church or something!” 

“Take a look at that jewel! I bet many a thief broached a topic with whoever was wearing that!” 

“…that was just terrible.” 

“You give a better one then.” 

“That jewel’s gorgeous. I bet someone really pin-ed away for that.” 

“How was _that_ better than mine?” 

“Don’t be a pin-head, the two of you.” 

“You tell ‘em, Musichetta.” They keep on the joking and the pushing and almost tip over one of the couches before silence crashes down in the museum. It’s almost as violent as the sound of breaking glass coming from downstairs. R whips around as he heads for the stairs, only to be grabbed by Bossuet. 

“Wait, R!” 

“This is my job!” he yelps softly. 

Musichetta’s face is grave. 

“There are people in the museum,” she says in a distant voice, her eyes not quite focusing on them. With a violent shrug, R dislodges Bossuet and cautiously heads downstairs. 

There is the sound of angry voices in the dark—and then one very familiar voice. “What are you even doing here?” 

“Who’s that?” a rough voice snarls in reply. 

“Dad, it’s me. The museum’s closed!” It is Éponine. “Don’t you try to stick me with that, Montparnasse,” she continues. 

There is the slap of flesh on flesh, and then raucous laughter. 

“Well, she got you there!” a third voice speaks up. 

“Give it back, Éponine,” a voice whines. She seems to ignore the fourth speaker, and R creeps closer and closer. 

“There’s nothing of worth in this museum. Most of it is replicas and I even talked with the lady in charge—there’s nothing of true value unless you like asbestos-laced taxidermy.” 

“The old security guard claims otherwise. He says there’s magic.” 

“Magic?” An indelicate snort. “There’s no magic here. I would have noticed.” 

“Magic that only works at night,” and it is her father’s voice again, coarse and cruel with the promise of threat. “Now, it’s best that you be on your way and let us professionals work.” 

“There’s a new guard; I’ll scream and he’ll come,” Éponine warns. “Old Javert is the man in charge of security here. There’s nothing here for you.” 

There was a silence and then a mutter: “You yappy guard dog bitch. Don’t come back to the house or you’ll never get to go to your precious museum again.” 

She lets out a fearsome snarl, even more impressive given her slight form. “Come on! Kill me, if you have the guts for it! I’m not the daughter of a dog; I’m the daughter of a wolf. Now get out or I’ll scream. And I’ll not give your knife back, Montparnasse.” There is the sound of grumbling and R starts moving loudly, determined to back her claim. 

“Who’s down there?” he lets his voice echo in the hall. “The police are on their way!” He manages to make it down the stairs and around the corner to see the forlorn figure of Éponine standing in front of the ruined glass doors, poised to flee. 

“Wait!” he pitches his voice in a soft shout that only she could hear. “Éponine!” He can see the internal struggle between fight and flight before she slumps and allows him to come near. 

“Éponine, are you okay? I heard the whole thing and it’s not the police but Javert on his way. Will you be alright?” 

She lets out a bitter laugh and shivers against the night air. “He hasn’t been much of a parent for a while now. But he will be back.” 

There is a clatter and suddenly Marius and Cosette are whipping out the door from the basement around the desk. “We heard the raised voices, is everything—“ 

“The door!” cries Marius in dismay, staring at the broken glass. 

“Éponine!” they exclaim as one, and R feels her flinch through his hand on her shoulder. He holds up a hand to forestall their questions. 

“Yes, there was a break-in. Yes, I’ve called Javert. No, Éponine is not in trouble; in fact she scared them off.” 

“A good thing,” comes a dark voice from the animal room, “otherwise I would have.” The shrouded figure stepped forward to reveal Combeferre fixing his glasses and looking annoyed. Éponine’s wide-eyed and silent, a first perhaps for the woman who seems to have a responding quip for everything. R can’t but wish it was under different circumstances. 

“But…you’re…but he’s…” she stammers, before looking frantically at the three people around her. “Magic, here? Really?” she sounds exasperated. “How did I not notice this at all?” she grumps. 

There is a screech of tires in the distance and Combeferre winces. “That’ll probably be Javert. We’re all going to stay still for when he comes, so farewell for now.” He gives a brief bow that everyone but Éponine (still muttering angrily to herself to notice) automatically returns, even R. He doesn’t know what it is, but Combeferre seems to have some sort of a classy aura wrapped around him that turns everyone into 19 th century gentlefolk. 

As he fades back into the shadows, Éponine gives herself a good shake. “Magic,” she says, disgust dripping from every syllable. “I should have known it.” 

“But how did the last security guard…?” R wonders out loud. 

Cosette winces. “That may be partially my fault.” But before he can ask for clarification, Javert storms in like a harbinger of the apocalypse. 

“What happened?” he thunders and even Floréal in one of her highest rages can’t compare. Resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, R begins to recount his story for the first of what he suspects to be many times tonight. 

Javert’s fury comes with the force of a hurricane, all enveloping and all destroying and creating chaos in his wake. R gets the brunt of the attention, although it’s not completely negative. He had done exactly as he had been instructed to do: punched in the correct codes and numbers to alert the security company and call the police once the intruders had left. But he was a witness and he had been there to scare them off further. He’s not going to lose his job or anything, but he feels as if he is on thin ice. 

Eventually, Javert’s eyes turn to Marius and Cosette standing in the background and R is given a respite. He goes to stand with Éponine, who’s still looking a little shell-shocked from her experience. 

He takes her into the statue hall and she whirls around and gives him a look. 

“So,” she drawls in a voice loud enough to carry but low enough not to attract Javert’s attention, “magic? Does the museum coming to life have anything to do with how Sylvie’s convinced you’re in love with a statue…” her voice trails off and she pales. “Wait, does Sylvie know?” 

“Sylvie knows nothing,” comes Enjolras’ harsh voice, making both of them jump. 

“I thought you were pretending to be a normal statue,” R says, looking him right in the eye. “Anyways, Sylvie, despite her tendency to anthropomorphize collections…” 

“And pet them and talk to them and basically dote upon them like they’re the children she doesn’t have yet,” Éponine adds. 

“Despite all of that, she doesn’t know. Or if she does, she’s keeping it a secret from everyone, even Valjean,” R finishes. “And,” he adds to Enjolras, “once she figures it out—” 

“If she ever figures it out, you mean.” 

“ _Once_ she figures it out, because you’re not as discrete as you think you are, I’m going to dare you to say that to her…in front of Musichetta, Joly, and Bossuet.” The smirk falls off Enjolras’s face. 

“Who’s that?” Éponine interjects 

“You know those mannequins on the second floor?” 

“Oh.” Understanding blooms in her eyes. 

“Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta notwithstanding, Sylvie lacks the capacity to figure it out.” 

Éponine glares at him. “You can go screw off. It’s one thing arguing with R, he can give as good as he gets, but personal attacks on someone not here? Sylvie may be bit of a ditz, but she’s a nice person.” Sylvie’s also probably the person who trained and hired her, if R thinks about it. It’s gotten a bit uncomfortable, and if there’s any more tension in the room, Javert might explode with suspicion if he finds them here. 

“So, why do you dislike Sylvie so much?” R asks to break the silence. “It’s been on my mind for a while.” 

“She almost found us out the first night we were here,” Courfeyrac admits, as Enjolras glares poison at him. “We were a little out of alignment and she almost threw us out as a forgery.” 

“And then,” and his tone turns gleeful, “she started calling him ‘Apollo’ and it stuck. He _hates_ that nickname.” 

“Enjolras will never forgive nor forget—I got it,” R nods jokingly with a chuckle and the tension dissolves. 

Sylvie comes flying in, Valjean behind her, about fifteen minutes after Javert. 

“Are the collections safe?” she cries. “Did they hurt you, R?” She skids to a stop. “Éponine? What are you doing here?” 

Éponine shrugs. “Insomnia. I was just walking around and I saw them breaking in and came to stop them.” 

Valjean sends a disapproving glare her way. “You could have been hurt.” 

“You could have been _killed_ ,” Sylvie cries, taking half a step forward. “Who knows what they could have done to you!” Éponine give a half-flinch. 

“But, the museum?” she questions, her bravado from the night draining out of her. 

“Your safety is more important than the museum’s,” Valjean says gently, Sylvie nodding like a bobblehead behind him. 

*** 

Eventually everything gets mildly sorted out with the police and Valjean is all set to take Cosette home. Sylvie offers to take Éponine on her way back (“because it’s dark and dangerous and who knows if those ruffians are still out there!”), but at Éponine’s violent flinch, Marius offers instead. 

It takes a certain kind of person and a certain kind of trust, R decides as he watches Cosette coax Éponine into going with Marius, to let your boyfriend take another girl home, a girl with whom you have a history and who is also in love with him; but Cosette is absolutely that kind of person. Also, Marius is the type of person who would turn a sword on himself before betraying Cosette. It must be nice; he sighs. They may be leaving, but he’s still staying—and judging from how high Javert’s shoulders are, it’s not going to be that fun a time. 

Before she leaves, Cosette clutches his sleeve excitedly and hisses, “It worked!” leaving him to ponder upon the words for the rest of his time at the museum. 

*** 

It’s a small blessing that he actually gets home before noon. He had sent a quick text to Camille, trusting her to tell their parents (not that they’d care, but…) but he returns home to an empty house. 

Flopping on the bed is his chosen course of action, and it was as if angels are singing as he sinks into the soft sheets and luxuriates in the pillow. Sleep calls to him, stretching its fingers out and weaving them in his hair, sending him to the land of dreams. He wishes he could sleep the sleep of Endymion, forever left in the embrace of his love. His eyes are like sandbags; his body cement. He sinks into sleep as an otter slides into the river, quickly but with nary a sound. 

*** 

He not only manages to sleep through his alarm, but his second one as well. It is only by the grace of his mother shaking his shoulder that he awakens. 

“Rémi, Rémi, your alarm’s gone off. Rémi, wake up!” Bleary-eyed and feeling as if he’s been hit by a hammer, still caught in the daze of the newly wakened, he stares at her. 

“Rémi, you’re going to be late.” He blinks. She rolls her eyes. 

“Oh for god’s sake, Rémi.” She strides over to where his uniform has been left crumpled up and picks it up, flapping it to get the wrinkles out. “Now come on, then. You’ve slept through your alarm. Put this on and I’ll make some breakfast for you.” She holds the clothes out to him and he stares at her. 

“ _Rémi_.” He jumps at her tone and grabs the clothes. 

“Thanks, Mum.” She sighs and closes the door, leaving him alone in the room. He blinks again and then looks at his alarm clock. A bolt of panic electrifies every nerve in his body and then some as he realizes how late he is. 

“Damn it!” he curses, nearly breaking the door in his haste to get out. 

“Language,” his mother sings in a tuneless reprimand, holding out a breakfast sandwich of some sort wrapped in paper towel and tinfoil. “Have a good day at work.” 

She has no idea. 

He manages to make it on time, barely, and avoids the sharp gaze of Javert and the worried gazes of just about everyone. Marius tells him Sylvie has actually chased away all reporters, gossips, and their ilk from the museum and quite possibly the witnesses as well, so they’re probably safe. R’s not surprised. Louison blows a bubble with her gum, punches him on the shoulder, and tells him that he can’t die before they catch whoever’s stealing cucumbers. It’s nice to know that she still cares. 

Cosette comes up from collections as everyone leaves, carrying a large, familiar wrapped parcel. 

“I’m going to take her upstairs where no one ever goes and just explain it to her first. We were kinda cut off by the drama last night,” she explains. He nods and lets her pass. 

“I’ll be up in a minute,” he tells her. 

Soon the museum is silent and it feels like he is the only person in the museum, walking his route before the sun sets when he hears a scuffling sound behind him. He starts to turn, but before he can, everything turns black. 


	12. In Which There is a Great Battle

R awakens to a pounding head and a small sob. The ropes binding him cut into his flesh and he hisses as he tries to see who is crying. 

“R? Grantaire?” It is Sylvie. “Oh thank god you’re awake.” There is the sound of a stifled sob and gulping. It is dark and he’s still dizzy and his tongue lies heavy in his head. 

“Sylvie, where are we? What happened?” 

“We’re currently tied up as a gang of art thieves ransacks the museum.” Her voice is low. “I forgot some paperwork for a grant that I needed to work on and I came in to see you getting attacked. 

“They had a gun. I couldn’t even get to input the codes. Not that there’s anything to put the code into, now that that knife boy’s had his way with it.” Her voice is bitter with fear. 

He is shaking, he realizes. And then he notices the fading glimmer of light outside in the hallway. 

“Sylvie, what time is it?” 

“You want to know what _time_ it is? I don’t have a watch!” After a moment she murmurs, “Just about twilight, probably.” 

R feels a grin tugging at the corners of his face. “Oh, Sylvie, you are in for a surprise.” Used to it as he is, R barely blinks when the change washes over the museum. A loud gasp emanates from the corner where Sylvie is, however. 

“What was that?” She sounds dazed and quite out of it. 

“Magic.” He hopes he doesn’t sound as manic as his face probably is. Ignoring her confusion, he raises his voice a bit. “Hey guys, do you think you could help us out? There’re some art thieves here and they’re completely wrecking collections.” 

Sylvie makes an indignant sound at his words which trails off into a little gasp-squeak as Enjolras storms into the gallery. The magic is still working, turning moving marble into flesh, but he is a sight to be seen, the dying rays of the sun making his golden hair shine like a halo behind him. 

Sylvie lets out a little moan. “They hit me on the head and I started to hallucinate,” she half-wails as Combeferre walks around Enjolras and starts to untie her. “I can’t believe that I’m hallucinating the Lamarque statue coming to life…” She stares at the hand offered to her, and even as the ropes are taken off him, R watches the recognition come over her face. 

“You!” she yelps, grabbing a surprised Combeferre and bringing his face close to hers, tilting his head in the dying light. “How are you—are you one of his models? But it was over fifteen years ago!” She lets go of his face and steps back before turning to point an accusing finger at R, “ _You_.” 

Enjolras’s hands tighten on his arms and how strange is that that Enjolras still hasn’t let him go. 

“Me,” R agrees good naturedly to Sylvie’s confusion. He then gestures towards the painting he knows she comes to visit every day. “And him.” R watches in concealed delight as her confused eyes move to the direction and widen beyond belief. Soft laughter fills the gallery. 

“Gods above,” Sylvie whispers, her eyes locked with Jehan’s smiling ones. She staggers back one step before taking two forward, hand outstretched as if to touch the canvas of the painting. The sound of something shattering followed by shrieks and cursing rises from beneath their feet. She steps back again, her face pale in the remaining light and R makes the decision and moves in the same instant. 

“It’s going to be dangerous,” he says, giving her a mighty push into the canvas. A startled cry rips its way from her throat as she falls into Jehan’s arms with an almighty splash. He wipes the water from his face. “Jehan, keep her safe.” 

“I will,” the poet promises, as Sylvie turns, betrayed, to cry, “R! What did you do?” 

“They’re art thieves, they won’t hurt you if you’re in a painting,” he calls over his shoulder. “Just get out of it before daylight hits!” 

“R!” 

“Jehan and Bahorel can explain!” 

“ _R_!” 

“So,” Courfeyrac asks, jogging to catch up to him as the rest of the museum starts to waken. “What’s the plan?” 

“The plan,” Enjolras says, cutting in front of R and making him stop with a hand to the chest, “is that we stop them from taking our friends in collections. We are more than just objects, we are more than just insurance or auction money, we are legion—and we take care of our own!” His voice has grown sonorous as he spoke and the entire museum seems to stop and listen. He is the oracle, speaking the words of the gods, he is the prophet leading them to salvation. He is Enjolras and R is struck dumb. There is silence and then a loud cheer. The entire museum seems to thunder. 

“Now, go!” cries Enjolras. “They can try to hurt us, but we are not flesh and blood, we are the _museum_ and we _cannot be stopped_!” A steady, growling roar arises from those gathered around him, statue, mannequin, taxidermy, and skeleton alike. 

“ _We will defend our own_!” He thrusts his free hand up into the air and the roar breaks loose. “Combeferre is our guide, he knows strategy. Listen to him, for we will win. Courfeyrac, you take the watch, make sure that no one gets out…or in.” R feels his eyes widen as he realizes— 

“Cosette’s upstairs!” he blurts out and Enjolras’s eyes focus on him. 

“Then you will find her and get her to _safety_ ,” Enjolras stresses and R flees, unable to stand those eyes on him any longer. Up the stairs, two by two, until his legs are screaming and he breathes pain instead of air. Cosette is at the very top floor, and he finds her cowering with Felicie’s portrait behind one of the standing drawer-cabinet things. 

“R?” she gasps and he sees the tears on her face as he takes the painting away from her slides it out of harm’s way onto a nearby countertop. “Oh, R. I’m so scared!” 

“There, there,” he soothes her as he had Camille when they were younger. “It’s going to be fine. Enjolras has fired up their revolutionary fervor and they’re all going to defend the museum.” Cosette gives a hiccupping laugh. 

From the surface above where they’re kneeled comes a pointed cough. “What is going on out there?” The woman in the painting who must be Felicie demands, making a sharp knocking noise as she tries to peer around her frame. 

Cosette is still trying to crouch behind one of the cabinets in the back. “There’s armed thieves in the museum and I have to keep collections safe,” she says. “And here I am on the opposite level of the building.” She’s still breathing fast and her eyes are slightly unfocused, but she’s stopped crying. 

Felicie looks disapproving from where R placed her on the table as he tries to coax Cosette into calmness. For a woman in her twenties, she’s surprisingly good at looking like a disapproving grandmother. She makes a tsking noise and the impression is complete. 

“R, come over here,” Felicie requests in a voice that is not a request but a demand, and he has no choice but to follow. She’s apparently pretty smart, too. He’s not even been introduced to her. “Cosette, I’ll require your help as well, just for a minute,” she says. 

Cosette shakily stands up and comes over. 

“Now, Cosette, pick me up and hold me at an angle facing the floor. R, be a gentleman, won’t you and stick your hand in here. When I say “now” give the frame a quick shake, Cosette.” R hasn’t ever entered a painting partially, but he does as requested and it’s the weirdest feeling ever, pins and needles going up and down his arm, but they aren’t painful and seem to just be shocking impressions against the inside of his flesh. He’s kneeling against the cold flooring and the painting’s warm and it’s all very disconcerting. Even more so when he feels someone take his hand. 

“Now!” Her command is punctuated by the sound of a shot downstairs. There’s a sudden rush of pressure and his head hits the floor. Cursing he tries to move, but something’s hindering him, something warm and there’s excess fabric everywhere and Cosette is hissing stuff under her breath. It isn’t until he manages to sit up that he realizes what has occurred. Felicie is sitting on his legs trying to tame her wispy flyaways and straighten her very long (and very heavy dress) at the same time. There’s another shot from upstairs and she shoots up, very graceful for a woman who’s just popped out of a portrait. 

She strides over to one of the posters plastering the wall about future exhibits, and _reaches in_ to pick up what the text says is a rapier with a Toledo blade. The golden gilt hilt is swiveled and fits around her hand as if it was made for her. The patterns on it dance as she finishes pulling it out, making a swishy, screaming sound that R’s only heard in movies as it slides out. 

“Tell me,” she says, deadly soft. “Where are these violent intruders of yours?” 

R points towards the stairs. “Last I knew they were in the basement,” he volunteers. 

Felicie looks them up and down, assessing in the same way R’s fencing instructor does with newcomers. They’ve got the same look to them, right down to the slight squint when they see something they like. She reaches into another poster with her free hand and pulls out an elaborate and exquisitely decorated cane (more of a walking stick in length) with an ivory inlay. 

“I can tell by your stance, _canne de combat_ ,” she says. “Take it.” He does, wordlessly, and it fits into his hand like a dream. She reaches into a different, nearby poster and comes out with a baseball bat for Cosette. 

“Swing it hard towards the tender parts,” is the only advice she gives her before turning like a grand dame in one of the old movies and descending down the stairs. Still gripping the empty frame and canvas, R and Cosette follow her warily. 

The second floor is still empty, but once they make it to the ground floor, there is chaos. R is greatly reminded of his first night, but there was not this much focused attacking. The intent then had been to confuse—tonight it is to harm. From the noise, it sounds like there’s more people than those that he can see being menaced by the museum pieces, but it’s definitely more than the handful who tried to break in last night. At least one is a woman—but all that fades to nothing as R notices Enjolras. 

Striding like Apollo towards the Python, rage is set in his every muscle, and he is poetry in motion. He is ferocious and wrathful—nothing tame about him. His flame burns bright in the fight around him and R can’t keep his eyes off of him. Well, that’s true until there’s a rush of fabric from in front of him and suddenly Felicie descends into the fray, approaching a young man who has broken out of his circle of museum pieces. 

Felicie does indeed laugh a lot; however it is not the “soft sound of bells pealing in the morning” or whatever ridiculous romantic descriptor Bahorel had used; she is laughing maniacally as she viciously attacks the well-dressed man who is also wielding a large knife. It is terrifying and also slightly arousing. (Between all of his romantic choices, from Floréal to Enjolras, it really isn’t that surprising.) What is surprising is the amount of cursing that’s coming out of her mouth as she flawlessly beats the foppish interloper into the ground with all the subtlety of a hammer. She’s almost got him when one of the others, a hulking brute, comes up behind her and then, before he even realizes he’s moved, R has flown to her aid, using his long cane to keep the crowbar from crashing down on her unprotected back. Quick as a whip, she’s whirling around and suddenly the crowbar is dropped with a crescent of crimson as the wounded man’s howls echo through the museum. 

“First blood to the Dieudonne,” she calls. “May you beg whatever god you worship for mercy, for I will show none.” The guy behind her scrambles to stab her and she effortlessly dodges before kicking the crowbar to trip him. 

“Thank you, R dear,” she calls over her shoulder as she focuses in on her attack again. “But I think I’m fine here.” She stabs at her original opponent as he rolls away, and she’s after him like a hound on a fox. 

R casts his gaze for Enjolras. If only he can help during the battle. As he scans the scenes, he sees his friends. Joly is using his cane in a form even R’s instructor would be envious of, Bossuet seems to be in the back, coordinating with Combeferre, Musichetta is attacking a tall intruder with nothing more than her trusty parasol which should be ineffective at best, but she’s landing every hit and he’s continually missing her. This could also be because the kids are hanging off him like little fierce limpets with teeth, but Musichetta’s smirk suggests otherwise. 

It’s not really a battleground like you see in the movies or anything. There are clusters surrounding the intruders who are either backed up against the wall or trying to break out of the ring that surrounds them. In one notable case, there’s one who has the bear’s paws on his chest as it roars in his face, saliva dripping everywhere and, those teeth! R shudders at the idea of facing that. 

A glimpse of blond hair makes him turn to maneuver around the distinct groups, swerving each time he feels the brush of a hand trying to grab him and then suddenly he’s there, face to face with Enjolras, who has ceased barking out orders. He looks so alive like this, R marvels—and what a shame it is that by the end of the night he’ll be pressed back into cold marble, unfeeling as long as the sun is up. Someone shoves back against him, sending him flying into Enjolras’s chest as both tumble backwards into the painting gallery. 

There’s yet another intruder in here as well, crouching to the floor as the girl with the bow shoots arrows out of her painting at him and as the inhabitants of the _Corinthe_ throw mugs and bottles that quickly crash and turn into glass shards when they don’t hit him. R is still feeling quite breathless; anyone would, he rationalizes, if they were pressed up against Enjolras. Automatically, Enjolras’s hands have reached to steady him as they stagger backward, but he has yet to release him and R has yet to mind. 

Through the other entrance stumbles the man with the knife, followed by Felicie, waving her sword with purpose. She’s still laughing. 

There’s a choked off cry from the painting closest to them, and then, “Felicie?” 

Bahorel sounds like he’s hardly able to speak, hardly able to hope. R knows the darker side of this emotion, but the smile that lights up Felicie’s face as she turns speaks of something brighter. 

“Étienne!” she cries in delight. “I’ve finally found you!” She smiles, then falters for a second, before whipping back and stabbing the man straight through the leg, pinning him like a butterfly to the floor. 

“That _hurt_ ,” she growls, no laughter left in her voice, before kicking him in the head hard enough that everyone, even the paintings, wince. She reaches into the painting of the ship and pulls out a coil of rope. 

“R, could you please tie him up?” Her voice is not as strong as it was in the beginning and she’s beginning to look a bit pale. The man lolls on the floor, limp as a puppet without a hand to move it. Breaking out of the warm embrace surrounding him, R complies with her request, tying the knots hard enough that he can’t escape and kicking the knife further down the gallery. 

As he does so, Felicie makes her way over to Bahorel’s portrait. 

“Étienne, my love,” she murmurs, caressing the canvas. Bahorel’s eyes are bright. 

“I thought we were parted forever,” he replies. R finishes his knots and looks to see blood, no, paint dripping in a trail that leads to Felicie. It’s not crimson, but when he dips his fingers in it, it’s not quite black either, more of a deep blue. When he holds his hands up to the light, it glints with other colors, shifting and dancing, despite the fact that neither the light source nor himself were moving. 

“You’re injured!” he exclaims. 

“Just a moment,” she replies, reaching her hands into the canvas before her and then pulling with all her might. There’s a glow coming from the painting that hadn’t happened when R was doing it—but then a she lets out a huff and starts moving backwards. 

First enters a hand, wrist caught in her grasp. Next an arm, then shoulder, head, and then Bahorel is tumbling out of his painting to the shocked gasps of the other paintings around him. Much like the earlier scene, the pullee is on top of the puller. But neither seem to mind it that much. Felicie has her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling herself up from the floor and is weeping into his shoulder. Bahorel has managed to lever them both so they’re kneeling, but he has his hands wrapped so tightly around her that if she were human she probably wouldn’t be able to breathe. 

It’s immensely personal and R feels like a voyeur in the moment, watching the moment when two star-crossed lovers reunite. It appears that Enjolras feels the same way, for he grabs hold of R’s forearm and wrenches him back into the chaos of the main gallery. 

Cosette gingerly picks her way across the museum, clasping the frame to her like a life preserver and clutching the bat in a white-knuckled grip visible even from here. Every line in her body screams discomfort, and R is about to make his way over to her to tell her to get out, when one of the intruders, an older man, breaks free and comes screeching towards her. She flinches and cowers and then out of nowhere, in comes Marius, grabbing the bat from her (and knocking her down in the process, oh _Marius_ ) and hitting the man directly in the face. 

The man goes down like a bag of bricks and Prince Gillenormand is free to offer her a hand up, like a knight of old. He’s blushing, she’s blushing, there’s blushing all around, and it would be cute if someone hadn’t backed into Marius sending both of them clattering to the floor again. Right now, they’re both liable to get hurt if this goes on for much longer. There’s yet another person approaching them as they try to untangle themselves. 

Like a kamikaze sparrow against a window, Éponine appears out of nowhere and takes the blow. She’s prepared for it, so it doesn’t knock her over, but it does have the effect of stilling both Marius and Cosette. 

“Éponine? I thought you were asleep!” 

“You lumber like an elephant, Marius. No one could sleep through that. Now go!” She swivels around. “Get to somewhere safe, and _use the bat_!” The two scramble away as Éponine turns to join a group, but trips over the man Marius hit. She pauses as she looks down. R’s close enough to hear the murmured “Dad” which is neither mournful nor scornful before she slips away into the fray. 

And then there’s the hand on his shoulder, guiding him forward and he knows that hand, knows that arm—and so he follows. He always follows. Just like Patroclus and Achilles, just like Hephaestion and Alexander, he will follow this radiant man anywhere, be it to the gates of hell itself. 

*** 

And then, and then it all goes south. Suddenly one of the men has grabbed his gun and shots are fired and there is a stampede. R feels the sickening lurch as his body and gravity decide to disagree with him and, with a yelp, he finds himself falling. As his view of the walls turns to the ceiling, he catches a glimpse of Enjolras’s horrified face before Enjolras is lunging for him like something out of an Olympic sport. 

Arms close around him, hands card through his hair to cradle his head, and there’s a cheek pressed close to his and a chest colliding with enough force to make him gasp. Hitting the floor hurts even more with a statue turned human landing on his chest but R hardly notices the ache due to the shock of having Enjolras wrapped around him. As freaky, serial killer as the action is, he can smell him, and something about that fills him with a giddy air and makes sparks dance along the edges of his skin wherever they touch. Enjolras’s cheek is still mashed to his and he could hear the harsh puffs of air. 

But then reality decides to reenter the conversation with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer; R’s body decides to complain quite painfully about all the bumps and bruises it had acquired most ferociously, with a throbbing ache and starry lights dancing on the corners of his vision. The arms tighten further around his neck. Enjolras’ quick save has kept away a few more serious inflictions, but there are still feet everywhere—and then there is a blur of a foot and Enjolras is reeling back, falling off him and now it is R’s turn to use his body as a shield. 

By the time he manages to rise and crouch over Enjolras, the beautiful face has already met trouble; he’s bleeding and curled into a little ball like a pillbug. R crashes down above him, balancing on his arms and knees, but keeping his head tucked down. Sensing R’s presence, Enjolras unrolls a bit, their foreheads nearly touching—and R could lose himself forever in those blue eyes of his. 

A hiss escapes as what feels like someone’s tiny foot bounds off his back, a jolt of pain sparking up his spine, nearly causing him to smash down. Locking his arms seems like a good idea as the rush fades and he and Enjolras are still staring at each other. There’s something on Enjolras’s face, something protean, unfurling like a snowdrop in the spring, and R feels something a bit like hope take flight in his chest. 

He crashes down on him, not expecting the heavy sole on his back, and he hears before he feels the sickening crack as his head hits the tile flooring like a ripe melon. Enjolras’s arms fly back around him as if magnetized by a force of something and he’s furious, spitting some kind of insults, snarling like an angry wolf, but everything’s so fuzzy and it _hurts_ …. 

He doesn’t black out, not exactly, but he can’t find it in him to fight when he’s roughly hauled up and away from the floor and Enjolras. Enjolras does most of the fighting himself, needing three men to hold him down, before a crescent of sharpness caresses R’s neck and Enjolras goes completely still, sagging in his captors’ grips like he’s a marionette with all its strings cut. 

The man holding him is saying something; the ringing in his ears makes everything indistinct sounds—he can’t hear any actual words—but he can feel the buzzing in the chest behind him. Enjolras is still there like a forgotten doll, and R uses what little strength he has left to raise his hand and reach out to him. His eyes manage to finally focus, only to see what would be called heartbreak on any other man’s face; but it quickly disappears. 

Enjolras lunges forward, to his captors’ surprised shouts, their hands lax against his arms, and then he is there, gripping R’s hand as a drowning man does a life preserver. Pulled forward, there’s a small sting against his throat and then a roar of an angry bull and R finds himself knocked over and collapsing to the floor, his limbs and mind still like jelly from the shock. 

There’s a screech and the sound of something hard smacking against flesh as cool hands reach for him and turn him upward. He’s nestled in a lap now as hands stroke his cheekbones and flitter up to his hair and back down. 

The light nearly blinds him as he cracks open his eyes—but then the shadow highlighted above him resolves into Enjolras’s face. His eyes are glassy and he looks as if the entire world has nearly come crashing down around him. He’s speaking but only now has it resolved into words. 

“…would I have done, R, you idiot! Never do that to me again, you could have _died_ because of me, and why would you have—” He stops as R manages to get a hand to his lips. It soon moves to ghost upwards and curve around his jaw. 

“Enjolras,” R says, his voice cracked and dazed. 

“What?” 

“Do you permit it?” And then he raises himself up and his arm finds itself around Enjolras’s neck, his hand tangling in the golden locks. Hands scrabble at his back, rising up to his shoulders to pull him closer. 

Enjolras’s joyful “yes” is the most beautiful thing R has ever heard and as their lips meet, clichéd as it may seem, at the first touch of plump lips to his, a sweet joy arises and fills him, flowing and sticky like honey, making every single part of his body sing with joy. The kiss is short and chaste, but the look Enjolras sends him when they part promises the ones in the future to be anything but. R finds a foolish smile dragging the corners of his mouth from cheek to cheek. His fingers clench in the hair wound around him and Enjolras makes the most delicious noise and pulls him up again. This kiss is much less chaste, with teeth and tongue. It’s as if there’s a menagerie of animals dancing through his body, but all he can think about is how bliss fills every corner of his soul. He could shake apart, every molecule of his body escaping, vibrating with happiness. He lets out a low moan and the responding sound is so intoxicating that he absolutely has to figure out how to hear it again. 

When they finally part for air and gaze into each other’s eyes, he hears a good natured chuckle. Turning, he sees Bahorel perched on the limp body of a man, watching them fondly. 

“Ah, young love,” sighs Felicie from his other side as she kicks a knife out of her way, sending it skittering across the floor as she coils rope around her hands in loops that twist onto each other. “Use this, Étienne, and make sure to tie the bastard tight up.” She tosses the rope over and he catches it with the long time ease of someone who is used to having another person throwing things at their head. 

Craning his neck towards Felicie sends liquid fire down his limbs, but R manages to see three more equally trussed up figures behind her. With a start, he remembers the sound of flesh clunking and turns to her. 

“Don’t worry,” she half scolds, interpreting his expression correctly, “I used the scabbard instead of the blade. They’ll live. Unfortunately.” She sends a dark glare their way. R wants to scramble up and take a look around, something primal in his hindbrain still on the alert for enemies, but it’s so comfortable in Enjolras’s lap…. 

Grudgingly, he finds himself sitting up, but it appears that Enjolras is equally reluctant to let him leave his embrace. Felicie nudges Bahorel, and they leave the two among the tied-up, knocked out criminals to let them gently card hands through curls and ghost fingers over the injuries gained over the course of the night. R leans in for another kiss, but they’re cruelly interrupted by a shriek and a crash coming from the portrait gallery. 

They haul themselves to their feet and race in to see one man upright and untied, menacing Cosette. Sylvie is there, staring in dismay at the splintered and cracked frame ripping through the canvas of what was Felicie’s painting, rather than the obvious threat quite near her. There’s a meaty thunk and the man goes down, slammed by Marius and the baseball bat. But Cosette’s focus is on the canvas as well. 

“Dawn is in three minutes,” she says in a tremulous tone. Felicie is ashen-faced, Bahorel’s arm around her waist a no doubt steadying presence. Her fingers are tightly wound into his, so tight that there appears to be no blood in them. 

He presses a kiss to her temple. “Come with me,” he coaxes. “Valjean can take my painting down and Sylvie can doctor the paperwork and we can be together.” 

Felicie turns to face him, her hands rising to stroke down his beard and then up to wind through his hair. “You ridiculous man, of course,” she’s sobs. He sweeps her off her feet and into his arms as they step into his frame, together, much like a groom bringing his bride over the doorstep of their new house. Sylvie steps forward and gently takes them off the wall. 

“I’m going to put you face down on the floor now so I can claim that I need to take you downstairs,” she says quietly. “Is that alright by you?” 

Bahorel has never looked happier. “Of course it is.” 

“As long as we’re together,” Felicie chimes in. 

Sylvie starts to gently place the frame down, but it goes flying when she’s hit in the back by the man with the knives who had been stabbed Felicie earlier. He knocks her down and lunges for Cosette, and Marius pushes her away to leave himself in the line of attack. 

There’s a shriek. “Marius, get out of the way!” and Marius goes flying in one direction and Éponine takes the brunt of the blow. She stumbles backward, arms pinwheeling, and then continues backward, sliding into the painting followed by the bleeding man. He’s only halfway through when the magic ripples through the museum again. Accompanying it is a high pitched screaming. After a moment he realizes it’s Cosette. 

She’s as white as bone china, and still making that noise as Marius holds her worriedly. R turns to see what she’s looking at and, oh yuck. Bile rises in his gut as the bleeding bottom half of the man twitches and skitters across the floor, slowly disintegrating into little flecks of ink—and was that paper? The paper rolled in upon itself and suddenly it was just dust. 

But Cosette’s not staring at the body. Instead, her shaking finger is pointing towards the canvas Éponine fell back into. Originally, it was a painting by a local artist of a field of poppies. Now Éponine lies in the center of it, arms outstretched and looking mostly blissful. From this angle you can hardly see the skinny wrists or the bags under her eyes. She looks happy and content. But she’s not moving, and Cosette is crying so hard that she can barely breathe. 

“It’s…it’s not alive like the other paintings,” she chokes out. “She won’t ever move.” A stunned silence grows around them, and horror dips its claws into his chest and _squeezes_. Cosette is still crying and Marius is on the verge of tears. There’s the taste of smoke in the back of his throat as it tightens beyond breathing and a tingling in his eyes. Éponine is a friend. She dragged her siblings to work through a mixture of bribery and force so they would experience culture. This didn’t deserve this to happen to her. 

Sylvie is the first to break the silence with a barrage of curses to the heavens and beyond. Her voice is shaking, and R finds his world tilting wildly out of control like a tripod missing one of its legs. 

“This cannot happen,” Sylvie chokes out. “It absolutely can’t.” 

“Sylvie,” R starts, but she cuts him off. 

“No. It’ll happen again tonight and we’ll get her out.” 

“Sylvie,” Cosette’s voice drips with tears, “it doesn’t work like that.” 

There’s the faint wailing of police sirens in the background. 

“I hope you don’t mind that I don’t believe that,” Sylvie’s voice is hard enough cut diamond. “Now the cops are finally coming and we need to work on our story.” She looks grim. “Obviously we can’t tell the truth.” 


	13. In Which Valjean Fixes Everything

“I think I can help with that,” a new voice speaks from the doorway. Whirling around, R finds himself staring at the familiar pepper and salt hair and giant form of Valjean. 

“Valjean, where were you two hours ago? We could have used you and your strength then!” Sylvie’s tone is a mixture of irritation and disgruntlement. 

“I’m afraid I didn’t get your message until just now,” he demurs. Politely ignoring her scoff and rolled eyes, Valjean rapidly makes his way to Cosette, who flings herself in his arms, tears flowing freely. 

“Has anyone actually called the police yet?” Sylvie asks, picking herself up and checking the frame she had dropped. The glass is cracked but the canvas is safe, and R sees her slump in relief. “’Cause they’re not really going to understand it if we don’t soon and,” she took an obvious glance around the museum, “we’re probably going to need the insurance money. We can hash out the story as they’re coming. They never respond that fast when it’s the museum.” Her voice is sour. R is the night guard and so it’s his job to report it, he’s told as a phone is handed to him. Valjean looks grim as he offers to call Javert. 

“We appreciate your sacrifice,” Sylvie says, slapping him on the back. 

*** 

The story, as told to the authorities and others not in the know, goes a little something like this. While the gang, Patron Minette, had entered the museum, Cosette was staying late, examining the upstairs exhibits on Sylvie’s request. Sylvie had left and then come back for forgotten paperwork when she came upon the gang. They had already knocked out R when they threatened her at gunpoint and tied her up before heading downstairs to collections. 

Cosette, hearing the noise, had sneaked downstairs and untied them. However there was still someone guarding the front so they couldn’t get to the phone or then mostly disabled security system. Their phones had been confiscated, except for Cosette’s which was down in her office. 

What had been left unguarded, though, was the education collection, including a baseball bat and a replica rapier (somehow, what Felicie had pulled out of the posters still remained in the light of day). They had then started to pick off what members of the group they could, but then Marius had come in to walk Cosette home and inadvertently alerted the rest of the gang to their status. 

After that, they had run and scattered and, by using what basically amounted to urban guerilla warfare, had lured them into a room and then beaten or bludgeoned (for the fencing sword was blunt and dull) into unconsciousness. 

In the meantime, some pieces of artwork had gotten knocked around and sustained some damage. Valjean had come in at the last moment, looking for his daughter and became the hero of the hour, helping them neatly corner and capture the rest. 

Valjean was a hero, Sylvie tells anyone who asks her (even the pesky reporters), and the true villains were the ones who attempted to break into collections; by that point, her gesticulating and murderous aura had scared all but the most brave of heart away. It seemed that—despite staying most of the night in a painting with Jehan, one of the gentlest paintings there—Sylvie is not pleased with the events of that night. To be fair, nobody is pleased with what had happened. Especially not Javert. 

R had really been fearing for his life (and his employment) when Javert got on the scene. Under his watch, the museum had twice been violated (two days in a row!) and Javert couldn’t have been more displeased about it. 

Sylvie and Valjean step in, though, with Sylvie arguing counterpoint and Valjean being the steady mountain of a man he is. Eventually, the police have questioned all of them and taken the rest of the gang into custody, and R realizes, with a dropping feeling, what he has to do. 

“Has anyone called Floréal yet?” 

Everyone freezes and then Sylvie starts cursing up a blue streak. “She is going to be so furious,” she bites out at the end of a particular curse involving the intruders, ducks, and their supposed lineages. “She likes you, R. You can call her.” 

“Just offering me up as a sacrifice then?” 

“You have the highest survival rate of any of us.” 

*** 

Floréal reacts predictably. After the frosty “what?” and the increasingly loud statements afterward, she shows up at the museum in fifteen minutes, despite living thirty minutes away. She’s not wearing makeup, she’s wearing somebody else’s shoes, but she’s already got her phone to her ear and is gesturing Sylvie over as both of them are the PR department. She snaps the phone shut and the two start speaking in jargon. 

Or maybe they’re just throwing things out so fast that R can’t understand. Or a mixture of the two. Anyway, the two seem to catch ahold of the other’s sentence before they finish and, using a single notebook between them, seem to have drawn up a plan of some sort. Floréal snags a police man into their group and, once they let him escape, the chief walks over. He gets embroiled in their meeting and soon they’re all talking on the phone and making notes before nodding at each other and walking off in different directions. It’s like watching an animated feature or something equally amusing and ridiculous. But, then again, as of four months ago, his life has been like some movie or something. Just absolutely bonkers. He finds himself sagging down into a chair. It’s nice to get off his feet, and even nicer to envelop his face in his hands and just ignore everyone and everything for a while. 

He falls asleep at some point, but nobody wakes him. 

*** 

When he does wake up, Louison is there looking pretty freaked out. 

“I think the museum is closed today and maybe for the rest of the week,” she tells him. “How scary is that?” 

“We did just get robbed,” he reminds her. “Javert probably wants to put security cameras _everywhere_.” 

“We’ll have to sic Valjean on him to keep him from installing ones in the bathroom,” she nods, seriously. 

“I’m sure he wouldn’t go that far,” Valjean assures them. “Anyway, there’s nothing here to do for you, Louison, why don’t you head home?” He turns to R. “I’m afraid we still have some more questions and protocol—“ 

R stands and stretches. “Yeah, I understand. Lead the way.” It does go on for quite a while. By the end of it, R is drawn like a spring, taught and ready to leap out of his skin. Floréal waves a hand in front of him before she puts it on his shoulder. 

“You’re being squirrely,” she tells him. “I’m going to take you for some coffee and then you’re gonna ‘fess up.” 

“Let me sleep, Floréal,” he half groans, rubbing at his nose and eyes. “Can’t you just leave me alone for one day?” 

“Fine,” she says, biting off each syllable. “One day. And then I’m taking you out for coffee.” 

“You’re messing up my sleep schedule,” he grumbles, letting her tug him up and push him out the door. 

“You’ll have most of the week off, if the bureaucracy gets its way,” she says. “Stop whining, you big baby. I’m driving you home anyways.” The car ride is silent but full of unasked questions. Floréal always did have a way of asking even when she wasn’t speaking. R ignores everything and curls up against the window. Everything aches and throbs, and all he wants is some aspirin and his bed. The drive is quick and he finds himself stumbling out of the car, stumbling over his thanks, and then stumbling through his door and onto his bed. Maybe everything will get better after a couple hours of sleep. 

*** 

Everything does not get better after fourteen hours of sleep. Camille bounces furiously into his room when she hears the news, vaguely disturbing his rest, but what really wakes him up are the raised voices of his parents arguing over something or other. 

Camille crawls into his room and he hugs her tight as they snuggle into the sheets together. She sniffs and wrinkles her nose. 

“Ewww, Rémi, when’s the last time you changed the sheets.” 

“I think you were about five?” 

“Dork.” She snuggles closer. “They’re just worried about you.” He looks down at the mess of hair nearly glued to his chest. 

“What’s with the non sequitur?” 

“You’re actually smart, no matter what Dad says; don’t be dumb,” she thumps his side. “Dad’s mad at Mom for you working at the museum, even if it was _your_ choice. I guess almost being killed means that you can’t be yelled at,” she concludes at a mumble, hugging him tighter. It hurts his bruises, but he doesn’t flinch, just lets her hold him as tight as she can until she’s sure he won’t disappear. 

*** 

He meets with Floréal the next morning, still dazed and grumpy from his mixed-up schedule. Floréal has no sympathy. 

“Drink more coffee,” she says. “It’ll keep you up and then you can get onto a normal person schedule. You’ll thank me for it later.” 

“Like I’ll thank you for anything, harpy,” he mutters into his cup. But the small smile curving her mouth as she takes a slurp of her frozen caramel mocha cookie frappuccino or something (because this is actually a small, locally owned coffee shop) shows that she’s heard him and has decided to ignore him. 

So, business as usual, but at least she has the decency to wait until after he’s finished his coffee and the caffeine is kicking in. 

“So,” she says, crossing her arms on the table. “There’s something you’re not telling me and I’d like to know what it is.” He opens his mouth, ready to deny everything she says. 

She stops him. “Don’t even try to lie to me. I won’t tolerate it and I know there’s something. Now,” she leans forward. “What is it?” 

R opens and closes his mouth a couple of times. Where to start, how to start, and it’s not even his secret to tell. A dull flush creeks over his cheeks and suddenly he’s wishing that he had ordered a frozen drink instead. The sound of a plastic cup dropping garners his attention back up to Floréal. Her mouth’s wide open and the cup has dropped from loose fingers. 

“No way,” she breathes, before grabbing his hands. “No _way_! R,” she continues, breathlessly. “Did you _meet_ someone?” He can feel the heat grow and expand through his cheeks and her grip tightens almost painfully. 

“Oh. My. God. This is amazing.” He grips her hand tightly. 

“You can’t tell anyone.” 

“R?” 

“You can’t tell anyone, Floréal. It’s…” he looks down at the table. “Not official yet. I don’t know if it was adrenaline or what—“ 

Floréal’s finger tilts his chin up so they’re staring each other in the face. “R,” and her voice is serious, “he’d be an idiot not to. Just ask him when you next get a chance.” It’s much gentler than he’s expecting her to be, and then she drops the subject completely, turning it around to tell him more gossip about the people they went to high school with (apparently one’s starring in a rap music video) and other tidbits gleaned from actually living a life on the grapevine. 

*** 

Floréal’s words echo in his head when he goes back to work under Valjean’s invitation a couple of days later. Through some sort of demon magic or something, Floréal and Sylvie had managed to get a 24/7 police guard for the museum. Even Javert had been impressed. 

But when the sun goes down, he’s already ready. Enjolras steps down from his platform and looks around. When his eyes land on R, a transformation overtakes him, more drastic than the one that just happened. He turns a bright, glorious red and quickly walks over to him. When he laces their fingers together, fireworks shoot from the contact point and outwards. It’s the most glorious feeling R has ever felt…except for those few minutes during the fight. 

“I’d like to talk.” Enjolras’s eyes are downcast, but his hand tightens around R’s. 

R squeezes back. “Privately?” he suggests. 

“Privately,” Enjolras agrees and leads him over to the staircase. They pass Joly and Bossuet heading down, listening to twin cackles behind him. 

R can’t help but send a rueful smile Enjolras’s way. “Already the gossip has started,” he jokes. “I can feel it.” 

“Oh, the gossip started more than a couple of nights ago,” Musichetta corrects them as she swans down the stairs in an elaborate, new gown. “Excuse me, gentlemen. You’ll find that the second and third floors have been evacuated for your…talk.” Her eyes sparkle wickedly and a faint flush begins to make its home on R’s cheeks. 

Enjolras is as red as his coat. “Thank you, Musichetta,” he mumbles, tugging R faster up the stairs. It’s such a thrill to be pulled along that R almost forgets to be nervous. That feeling goes away when they make it to the third floor and R is seated on the bench with Enjolras standing in front of him. 

“R…” he says before stopping and helplessly tossing his head. 

“That is my name,” R agrees, teasingly. 

“R,” he begins again. “R, as I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, I have some…feelings for you.” 

“No, really?” R drawls. “With your tongue halfway down my throat after I’d been half concussed, I wouldn’t have dreamed it.” But he laughs as Enjolras turns an even brighter red and lets his hands rest on his arms. “I knew that, Enjolras. And I think you’ll find if you look back that I haven’t been quite that subtle with my attraction to you as well.” He feels Enjolras’s skin shiver under his touch and a ghost of a grin touches his face. 

“In fact,” and now he’s teasing as he dances his fingers up Enjolras’s broad arms and around his long, proud neck, “I’m pretty sure you noticed it when my tongue was down your throat after I’d been half concussed.” 

Enjolras takes a step back until only the pads of R’s fingers are touching, allowing for him to unfold from his seat and step even closer. He crowds Enjolras back up against a display case and runs a hand through golden hair, letting out a chuckle as Enjolras sighs in pleasure and wraps his arms around R. 

“So,” and now R’s voice is dark with promise as one thumb brushes over a pair of lips. “I think this is the point where I say I’m hopelessly enamored of you.” He feels more than hears the sharp gasp and the fingers tightening on his nape. “So,” he purrs again, “what was all this about your feelings?” 

His hair gets a sharp tug for his teasing. “Oh, as if you don’t know,” Enjolras bites out. “I’m absolutely crazy about you.” And then, fed up with R’s teasing, he crashes their lips together in a stunning kiss. 

Fireworks may go off before his eyes, but R is too busy trying to memorize the taste and shape of the man before him to really pay attention. Every single bit of skin is on fire due to the piece of artwork pressed against him. He pulls away, an unexpected whine coming from his mouth, before he starts to plant kisses down the jaw and then throat provided to him. Enjolras makes wonderful noises and squirms in the most delicious manner as he does so, his fingers clenching and unclenching against R’s shoulder. 

“Do you like this?” R breathes against the shell of his ear. “Do you imagine how you could be Galatea, brought to life by the power of love?” He lets out a low groan. 

“And you, R? Do you fancy yourself a sculptor? Are you my Pygmalion?” 

“I could hardly craft such a masterpiece,” R grins as his hands find Enjolras’s ass, enjoying the squeak it elicits. “Merely call me your lover, your boyfriend, your significant other, hell, and I’ll stay yours forever.” 

Enjolras pulls him back into yet another heart-stopping kiss, nibbling at his lip and then soothing it. R finds himself almost making a cooing noise at that, which almost makes him stop and step back because, _what_?! But that movement just makes Enjolras cling on tighter, and it can’t be all that bad, no matter how embarrassing it sounds. But now things have become a little more frantic and a little more heated as they start grinding together, heat pooling in his groin, and, from what R can tell from the sounds Enjolras is making, in Enjolrass’ as well. 

“Okay,” R gasps, “I need to get you out of your clothes, like, yesterday.” 

“Yes,” Enjolras growls, his legs already wrapped around R’s hips. He does another sinuous, brain-melting writhe that sets every nerve aflame, and R has to breathe into the crook of his neck for a minute to regain his composure, before attempting, again, to fiddle with the buttons. 

“Why, can’t, I, get, these?” he grunts, trying to open the damn vest. 

“R,” Enjolras’s eyes are more pupil than iris, blue circles around ever widening black. “What’s keeping,” he pulls R’s hair, causing a whimper to slip out, “you?” He gasps as R attacks his neck in retaliation. The sweet taste of salt and skin together makes him almost forget their predicament for a moment before Enjolras starts cursing. 

“Damn you, R!” he cries, writhing in his grasp, hair wild and face flushed like a maenad in the hands of her god. It is, hands down, the most stunning (and erotic) thing he’s seen in his life. 

A loud, cracking sound splits the air—and the mood. Both of them stilled, pulses elevated, breathing heightened. 

“Oh, shit,” R curses pulling them backward. It hurts to have all of Enjolras’s weight land on his chest, but what pierces through the cloud of lust is the small crack starting to form on the large pane of glass. 

“Shit!” The expletive drops from his mouth and Enjolras is still there, looking like a displeased cat. 

“Valjean is not going to like this,” he pants. “And Floréal might skin us alive. Do you know how expensive it must be to fix this kind of stuff?” 

“That wasn’t really on my mind,” Enjolras said primly. There was a rumbling up the stairs. 

“We heard a crash,” Joly calls out, bursting up the stairs. “Are you alright?” He is followed soon after by Bossuet yelling about interruptions, rudeness, and pests. 

Enjolras sinks down until his head gently plops on R’s chest. 

“We are never going to have a spare moment to ourselves, are we?” he asked regretfully. 

“It doesn’t look like it,” R laughed, and pulled him up for a kiss, regardless of onlookers. 


	14. Epilogue

_“Musain Mystery Revealed!”_ the newspaper headlines proclaim.

 _“Visitors are invited to come and see the newly conserved portrait at the Musain Museum of Natural History and Art. After the break in last July,_ _registrar Sylvie Lautrec_ _took a closer look at the painting and began to believe that the painting was not truly Keksekca’s work. After intensive research, curator Jean Valjean concluded that Lautrec was right._

 _“Using the very finest conservation technology, they discovered that the original painting had been painted over sometime before its donation in 1985._ _This is a stunning find for the museum._

 _“It is believed that the portrait, now containing two faces instead of one, was an engagement present to Felicie Dieudonne and her fiancé Étienne Bahorel before his death in 1916 at the age of 22. Dieudonne may have painted over herself during her mourning period, unable to see herself wrapped in the embrace of her dead lover. Dieudonne, an amateur artist as well as sword fighting enthusiast (a rarity for a woman both those days and now!), never married and, upon her death in 1983,_ _donated the portrait as well as a few other objects to the museum._

_“The painting, now featuring the happy couple, is now back from restoration, and is hanging in the Gallery of Paintings. The Musain Museum of Art and Natural History is open every day from 9 am to 6 pm and on Sundays from 10 am to 5 pm. Admission is free, but donations are highly recommended.”_

***

When he was younger, R had tried to see the beauty in everything and everyone. There was joy to be found in how two best friends cooed and clucked over each other, there was the warm feeling of love curling around his heart when he witnessed two people ensconced in a corner and clearly in love. There was the pure happiness of birdsong and in the kiss of the wind through his hair.

As he had grown older, life had ground him down with its dull monotony, and what had once been full of joy and love filled to the brim with bitterness, bile, and his own particular brand of cynicism. But with the Musain he had found a refuge to regain what he had once lost. Through the cuddles and occasional poke of a parasol he had found a pack of pranking punsters and with Floréal's insistent affection, Cosette’s sugar-sweetness, and Louison’s constant chattering, among others, he had found a map that led him on a winding path of redemption. It also helped that he had a gorgeous hunk of marble (who occasionally stole stamps) to lead the way.

He grins as the object of his thoughts (and his affections) shifts on top of him.

“Rémi?” His voice is a harsh whisper in the soft darkness, but R feels his lips quirk into a smile as he raises his neck up from where he had been pressed in the sofa to meet those lips with his own. After a millennia, or perhaps merely a few seconds, he pulls away, reveling in the gasp and frustrated whine that follow his departure.

“What?”

“I think we’re properly alone now, so…” Enjolras’s voice trails off seductively.

“I like the way you think,” R grins before running his hands under the shirt and vest mocking him. There’s a full body shiver from above and the grin comes back full force.

“Now, what say you to—“

Lanoire bursts in like a hurricane, a teenager on a mission.

“Hey, R, oh, oh no, I’m so sorry!” she cries, spinning around and covering her face. “Oh, I’m so, so, _so_ , sorry R, Enjolras, but Cosette’s looking for you.”

Enjolras grumbles into his chest, but R sits up with a sigh. “All right, what’s she need me for?”

Lanoire is bouncing where she stands. “She thinks she might know a way to bring Éponine’s painting back to life!”

In a flash, clothing is straightened, hair is finger-combed, and they’re up and out, leaving Lanoire trailing behind them. When they make it downstairs they follow the stream of bodies to see Cosette putting some final strokes of paint on the picture of Éponine.

“Now I don’t know if this will work, but…”

“It’s worth a shot,” Sylvie says her voice breaking though the unnatural silence of the museum. Everyone’s here, bunched around Cosette and her paints. “She didn’t deserve what happened to her and her poor siblings think she’s abandoned them.” Bossuet, behind her, tightens his hand on her shoulder as Joly and Musichetta lean back into him.

Cosette takes an unsteady breath, and then dots decisively with her paintbrush and puts it down.

“I’m done.” The words echo despite the lackluster acoustics in the room. She takes a can of something and sprays it; the sound is louder than expected. “There’s nothing else I can do.”

There’s the silence of held breath that stretches too long, then a feeling of something quietly clicking into place—and Éponine’s eyes flutter amidst the poppies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (look veeeeeeery closely at that last image)
> 
> And, that's it (for now, I've got more than a couple of side stories planned)! Please let me know what you think, here or at [ my tumblr](http://socpuppet.tumblr.com) and go and heap loads of praise upon [ Nath!](http://lapieuvrebleue.tumblr.com/)  
> (isn't she wonderful? she's so wonderful)


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